


Married the Sea

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [7]
Category: One Piece
Genre: (which is still my favourite tag ever), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crew as Family, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Loving Marriage, Makino gets a bounty, Pirate!Makino, Scylla-verse, So Married, and Garp has a lot of regrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: Not all couples spend their 10-year wedding anniversary behind bars for indecent exposure.Companion fic to Scylla, depicting the marriage of a certain illustrious pirate and the woman who stole his heart (figuratively speaking—at least unless you believe the rumours).





	1. Guilty As Charged

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same verse as my fic [Scylla](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945830), this was originally just a one-shot, but then I decided to leave it open for more instalments and now it's grown into a companion fic!
> 
> Note that the chapters in this fic won't follow the linear timeline in Scylla, which takes place over the course of 10 years, but will rather depict individual moments of Makino's life after she leaves Fuschia with Shanks and the Red-Hair Pirates. So consider it a...filling-in-the-gaps fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt fill for the "under the sea" prompt list on tumblr. Prompts were 'wrasse' (those lips), 'cuttlefish' (smarter than anyone thought), and 'octopus' (getting out of, or into, a tight space). Interpret the last one as you will, because this got dirtier than I'd first planned.
> 
> Set sometime during Scylla's second chapter, ca. 10 years after Makino leaves Fuschia with Shanks and the Red-Hair Pirates, but before Marineford.

That mouth had always been distracting. It only figures it should be the reason they were in this mess.

“It could be worse,” Shanks said, back leaned against the wall. The remains of the day’s light spilled in long shafts across the stone floor, the pattern disrupted by the bars on the window; a mere sliver of an opening tucked just under the ceiling, high above their heads.

Turning to face him, her voice sounded shrill where it bounced off the walls of the cramped cell. “ _How_?”

He looked at her seriously. Then, those obscene lips quirking, a smile stretching languidly along his mouth, “It could be Garp’s division,” he said.

Brow pressed to the bars, the sound that left her was pathetic, and it didn’t help that it prompted a chuckle from behind her, warming the quiet. She felt it caress the bottom of her spine with a shiver, but, “I can’t believe you find this funny,” Makino told him, peering through the bars. No one had come to check on them for several minutes. It was making her unreasonably nervous.

“Speaking of fun,” Shanks said, breezing right past her concerns, and Makino resisted the urge to scream at him for being so infuriatingly casual about the whole situation. “Wanna make out?”

Gaping, she fixed him with a disbelieving look. “That’s the reason we got arrested in the first place!”

That only had his grin widening; it dragged her eyes to his lips, held them there, as he said, “Not to quibble, my dear, but I think it was a little more than shameless neckingthat got us arrested. But if they really didn’t want us to keep at it, they shouldn’t have put us in the same cell.” He shook his head. “Rookie mistake.”

At her look, he shrugged. “They’re junior officers,” Shanks said. Makino watched him push away from the wall, before he came to stand beside her by the bars. “Pretty fresh ones, too, seeing as they have no idea who we are. If they did, they’d be calling high command to schedule a joint execution.”

She looked up at him, only to find his expression entirely innocent. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He grinned, a devilish slant to his smile that she knew all too well. “Not really, but  _I_  could, if that’s what you want. Then we could really give these guys something to put in their arrest report. I can see tomorrow’s headlines — ‘Renowned Emperor Red-Haired Shanks caught with his hand in his wife’s honey pot. The state of the world’s decency on the brink’.” His grin brightened, and he quipped, “Like I was when they found us. Which reminds me—they couldn’t have waited another minute? I was really close! You know, there is such a thing as being respectful. Indecent exposure or not, they could at least allow a man to finish.”

Makino groaned, dropping her head back against the bars. The metal felt cool against her skin where it burned through with a persisting, mortifying blush. “You’re not making it better,” she told him tartly. “And I can’t believe that’s what you’re thinking about!”

His grin caught the waning light; outshone it. Makino followed the soft curve of his lips, the sensual mouth that had gotten them into their current predicament, the din of a busy tavern pressing down upon them, along with the heady blend of alcohol and sweat, his eyes lit by the oil-lamps and his lips on her neck, and his murmur pitched low in her ear.  _Come on, let’s sneak off._

New heat scalded her cheeks, remembering — and even more than his mouth on her skin, the sound of a pistol cocking and the rush of embarrassment at being brutally dragged out of her thoroughly ravaged daze, her shirt unbuttoned and her breasts bared, and his hand down her breeches, his fingers inside her.

As though his thoughts had followed the same path, “It’s very hard  _not_  to think about that, cooped up in here with you,” Shanks told her. He threw a glance across their cell, taking in the cramped space between the wall and the bars, before flicking his eyes between them. “This is far better than that alley. Cleaner, anyway, although not necessarily less public.”

She watched as he leaned back against the bars, the action shamelessly inviting. He hadn’t bothered buttoning his shirt from earlier, and she traced the thick trail of dark hair climbing up his toned stomach from below the waistline of his pants. She didn’t know where his cloak had gone—remembered fisting her hands in it and pulling it off him, but little beyond that.

Lifting her eyes to his with some difficulty, it was to find them gleaming with a familiar, teasing light. “Sure you don’t want to take advantage?” Shanks asked.

Ignoring the naked suggestion in his voice — and reminding herself that the last time she’d succumbed to that unique persuasiveness, she’d been arrested half-naked and on the verge of coming — Makino fixed her gaze on the wall on the other side of the bars, a safe distance from his exposed chest, and the corded muscle begging her fingers, like that sinful trail of hair climbing up his stomach.

There were no other people in the cells next to theirs; likely, this wasn’t a town that attracted a lot of crime.

Until tonight, Makino conceded with a prickle of shame.

They lapsed into silence, standing there, Makino restlessly tapping her fingers against her elbows to the nervous rhythm of her heart. She wondered if Ben had heard yet. If the marines figured out just who they’d arrested, there’d be pandemonium. They’d be lucky if they got off the island without having to take on the whole division in the process. At best, it could endanger civilians; at worst, it could mean lives lost.

“It’ll be fine,” Shanks spoke up then, when the silence had stretched as long as their shadows across the floor. When she looked at him, his expression had softened, losing some of its teasing. “We’ll hang around until we’re sure Ben’s got the others herded back on the ship, and then we’ll stage a jailbreak.” He raised his brows, a delighted gasp escaping him. “You know, this could be a great set-up for some really kinky role play, if you’re game.”

Despite herself, her sigh dragged a laugh with it. “Shanks.”

“We haven’t done this particular scenario before,” he forged on, spurred by her reluctant good humour, and no doubt seeking to eradicate the reluctance. “Too bad they didn’t make us wear prison uniforms. That would have been something. I bet I could pull it off, too.” Then, one brow arched and his eyes hooded under his scars, “Or you could do the honours of pulling them off. I’d be happy to oblige.”

She could see from his widening grin that she wasn’t making a convincing show of holding hers back.

“Feeling better yet?” Shanks asked, and when she shot him an attempt at an unamused look, cocked his head sideways, that way that sent her heart skipping across the surface of her stomach. It was entirely unfair.

His lips pursed, a beckoning smile toeing the border of wickedness. Makino felt it along her spine, before it sank like a sigh into her depths, taking some of her tension with it. “Come on. We’re not exactly in dire straits here. The kiddos are playing cards two rooms over. And I’m pretty sure one of them is asleep.”

“They took our swords,” she reminded him, the words mild, even as she felt Siren’s absence keenly; the weight missing from her hip.

He leaned closer, the weight of his large hand settling in its place, heavy across her hipbone. He toyed with the waistline of her breeches, seeking the slip of bare skin there, and her breath caught. “They’re probably in a storage closet somewhere. We’ll pick them up on our way out. In the meantime…”

The hand on her hip moved around her back to grip her rear, pulling her closer, a question alighting in his eyes, bright with boyish intent as he brought them flush together, and she sighed her surrender with another laugh, catching on a moan that remembered how they’d been interrupted earlier.

The daylight beyond the window crept like a cat out of sight, throwing their cell into muted darkness as he leaned down to kiss her. He tasted of the whiskey they’d shared in the tavern, his tongue hot where it slipped into her mouth and the kiss greedy, devouring her slowly. The hand on her ass shifted, squeezed it once before seeking to tug loose the buttons on her shirt with nimble fingers. The cool air claimed her breath as it fell open, her breasts bared before he covered one with his mouth, and the bars dug into her back when he pressed her up against them.

She felt his length through his pants, seeming almost cheerfully hard, and had a thought to say that this was an even  _worse_  idea than the one they’d had earlier, that had seen them stumbling out the back door of that tavern, necking like their lives depended on it, but it was quickly forgotten as his lips moved to the juncture of her neck, laving an open-mouthed kiss there that she felt all the way to her core.

Teasing loose the laces, his fingers slipped under the waistline of her breeches, quick in seeking the soft skin of her thighs, and the growing ache between her legs, slick with her own want as he pushed a finger inside her, and he nipped her collar in tender warning as she let slip a sound that rang a little too loud for subterfuge, a breathy moan that stole the quiet, filling the space between the walls of their cell. Makino felt it echo low in her stomach, the sheer wantonness of the sound startling a groan from his chest that fell against her ear with a rumbling laugh.

Another finger dipped inside her, and she fumbled for the zipper on his pants, aware that this was beyond stupid, time and place considered, but curiously determined to ignore both facts when he shifted his hand, the heel of it pressed to her sex as she rocked back against his fingers, urging him deeper. She muffled her next moan into his throat, felt his pulse under her mouth as she gasped for air, and with her next starved breath she forgot about the bars, and the cold, metallic smell of the holding cell. She only knew his skin, salt and sweat and warmth under her tongue. The large frame of his body, hard against her own.

“How quick do you think we can make this quickie?” Shanks asked then, the words rushing out of him with a breath, and when he crooked his fingers Makino almost forgot the question.

Her own breath stuttered, a sharp pant as he slid his fingers in and out of her. It was difficult answering when she felt like she was about to pass out. “Why?”

A sudden clamour from further into the prison interrupted whatever he’d been about to say, although it was answer enough, and Shanks pulled back, the sudden withdrawal chased by a mewl that escaped her, too fast for her to catch and stifle.

A kiss to her brow, brief as a breath, and, “Nevermind. Looks like they’ve finally discovered who they arrested.” He looked down at her where she was pressed between him and the bars, mouth slanting with an adoring grin. His shirt was hanging halfway off his shoulders, and she watched as he pulled his zipper back up, a fleeting grimace chasing across his features as he rearranged himself, the bulge in his pants as undeniable as the unmet need that still had her reeling.

Before she could think, he’d ducked his head, catching her mouth in a bruising kiss that seized her whole body, before he let her go, the offer spoken into the space between their lips as she gasped from the sudden release, “Let’s bring this party back to the ship, shall we?”

Makino didn’t even bother trying to hide the state she was in, her breasts heaving and her mouth parted with a moan that still sat at the back of her tongue, and tried instead to scramble herself together enough to focus past the missing heat of his fingers inside her. Her legs buckled a little when she made to step away from the bars, but he cradled her elbow, his grin cheeky and delighted.

“Let’s hope Ben got everyone,” Makino breathed, reaching trembling fingers up to button her shirt. The cold was back without his body against hers, her nipples hard and the lingering ache between her legs almost enough to make her forget why he’d pulled away.

Shanks looked ready to say something when the sound of running footsteps beat him to the punch, as a group of marines crowded the doorway, all of them armed and aiming. And between one breath and another he’d stepped in front of her, angled so as to shield her, ostensibly so she could rearrange her clothes, although Makino felt the weapons trained on them, and the trembling intent in the fingers poised on their triggers. Shanks stood his ground.

Their earlier expressions of boredom and discontent were gone — bringing in a frisky couple caught mid-ravishing behind a seedy tavern didn’t exactly warrant a medal of valour — and their faces were now arranged in varying degrees of abject terror. Makino could sense it, like a salty tang in the air.

Then again, that could just be her and Shanks. Sex had a tendency to linger, and in more telling evidence than half-buttoned shirts and swollen lips.

“Hey,” Shanks greeted, as cheerfully undeterred by his half-dressed state and glaring erection as he was by the pistols pointed at them. “Mind giving me a hand with this lock?” For emphasis, he gestured to his left side, and the tied-up shirtsleeve. “I’ve only got one, you see.”

Several weapons were raised shakily, as someone called out, “D-don’t move! We’ll shoot!” Another at the back of the group choked off a very soft sob that sounded distinctly like  _Emperor._ Half of them looked ready to faint where they stood.

Shanks sighed, and cast a look behind him, seeking her eyes through the dark. “Tough crowd.”

Decent — at least insofar as her attire was concerned, the rest still being up for debate — Makino stepped closer, although a little more wary of the weapons trained on them than Shanks was. She kept him in front of her. “Amputee jokes are an acquired taste,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t waver. Her attempts at ill-timed levity were never as good as his. “You can’t really blame them.”

The marines were still aiming their weapons, seeming unsure of which of them to focus on, although Shanks had put himself directly in front of her, leaving them with little choice. Makino watched them, a flicker of sympathy sparked by their reactions. Their superiors were likely out enjoying themselves, leaving them to mind the base. The rookies hadn’t asked for this any more than they had.

She didn’t tell him to go easy on them, knowing he never used more force than the situation demanded. And she felt his haki as he unleashed it, the familiar wash of power where it swept cross the cramped room, filling it with ease, and her with a familiar, tingling warmth.

She ignored the knowing grin he slipped her. They’d long since established that she had something of a kink, although that didn’t stop him from delighting in it.

The navy officers all went down in a tangle of arms and legs, bodies slumping awkwardly in a heap, their weapons slipping from numb fingers to clatter on the floor. Kneeling down, Shanks reached through the bars to fish out a set of keys from an open pocket, before making quick work of the lock. And pushing the door open, the keening shriek of the hinges leaping into the quiet, he gestured for Makino to get out first. “My lady wife.”

She rolled her eyes fondly, but complied, stepping gingerly over the pile of unconscious bodies at their feet. “This could have all been avoided,” she said, as they made their way down the corridor to seek out their confiscated swords.

The look he shot her brimmed with amusement and persisting desire; it lanced through her like he’d touched her. “It could have, if you hadn’t been caught with your pants down,” Shanks agreed. “Literally speaking.”

She gave him a shove, and his laughter spilled out, loud enough to prompt her smile to widen, despite her own persisting worries. But there was no one else in the base as they searched it—no one who was still conscious, anyway, and they found their weapons without much trouble, sitting in what looked like a hastily abandoned break room, discarded next to an unfinished arrest report. Someone had spilled coffee on it.

 

> _‘M, 37. F, 30. Caught near local tap house (The Bulging Coinpurse) and charged with indecent_ _exposure (partial nudity, sexual intercourse etc.) Additional notes: lewd jokes upon arrest, something about being wrist-deep and only having one wrist. M took offence to the phrase ‘raise both hands’._ _Extended charges for blatant provocation and cheek??’_

 

Shanks handed Siren over, the blade small in his grip where he’d curved his fingers around it, the exchange one of old, breathless ease. Makino fastened it at her hip, her green sash tied around the sheath and the weight a desperate welcome. Then she reached out to help him retie his own, which had slipped loose under her earlier attentions, hanging low on his hips now. The red fabric spilled over her fingers, and she gave it a playful tug as she tightened it under Gryphon’s hilt, before giving his ass a slap as she moved past him, evading his reaching fingers as he gave chase.

“So,” Shanks asked, as they set off towards the wharf, leaving the small navy base behind them, the doors thrown open, wide as the grin on his face.

“How much do you think they’ll raise your bounty for public fornication?”

 

—

 

They arrived back at the ship under a sickle moon, the long day behind them, only to find the others waiting, and with smiles that told them they all knew exactly what they’d been up to.

Ben gave them both a long look, before casting his gaze to the little town sprawling at their backs. In the distance, an alarm started blaring, the sound echoing shrilly in the once-quiet night.

Shanks grinned, as though in answer to the look, and declared brightly, “We got arrested for indecency.”

Ben’s expression didn’t budge, but his gaze slid to Makino, who was trying her best not to look directly at him. It felt distinctly like being at the mercy of a disapproving mother. She would know—she’d grown up with the most disapproving of them all.

“I expected more from you,” he deadpanned, even as the gleam in his eyes betrayed it, and she felt her cheeks flush, gripped by a familiar mortification even ten years with this crew hadn’t managed to purge completely.

Beside him, Yasopp leaned his arms on the railing, his grin rivalling Shanks’. “I didn’t,” he said, and looking between them, added, “I’m surprised we didn’t have to come and break you out mid-throes.”

“Your belief in us is staggering,” Shanks shot back, but Yasopp only snorted.

“I’ve seen you two when you get going. Small wonder you managed to keep your hands off each other long enough to stage a jailbreak,” he retorted. “But it’s a good thing you waited until we had everyone on board. Would have been one hell of a mess trying to locate the guys if you’d started a fight right off the bat.”

“See?” Shanks asked Makino, who met his grin with an enduring look. “I told you it was smart to bide our time.” He shook his head. “I feel my brilliant strategising is due a little more credit. Ben gets pats on the back all the time for less.”

“Ben doesn’t spend half his time with his hand down his wife’s trousers,” Yasopp told him, and Makino choked. The corner of Ben’s mouth tugged upwards, as Yasopp grinned, and said, “No offence, Ma-chan. But while we’re on the subject—you forgot to lace up your breeches.”

Ignoring them all, along with her unlaced breeches, Makino made for the gangway, chin raised with stubborn dignity as they moved past her to raise it, a familiar efficiency in their movements as they prepared to depart that wasn’t hindered by their good-natured amusement.

A smile eased across her mouth in spite of herself, and despite the still-blaring alarm rising up from the town behind them. The water draped, soft as silk along the shore, beyond which the dappled lights of the townhouses winked back at them. From the streets twisting between the buildings, Makino spied a group of marines charging for the docks, pistols raised, along with a chorus of voices growing progressively louder.

“Good anniversary?” Shanks asked as he came to stand beside her by the railing, the warmth rising off his body an acute welcome in the sudden chill as the sea swept with a brisk wind across the deck. She leaned a little closer, chasing it, and felt the kiss pressed to the crown of her head as he tucked her against him.

The breeze stirred her hair loose from her bandanna, and she felt as he reached for it, to slip it behind her ear. On the docks, someone fired a shot; the bullet hit the water like a parting kiss, before sinking into the depths. “At least it didn’t end in a joint execution,” Makino said.

When she glanced up at him, Shanks was grinning. He wasn’t watching the wharf, his eyes on her instead. “We’ll do that next year. Shake things up a bit. We might actually make the papers for that. That’s one step up from an arrest report.”

She ducked her head with a breathy laugh. Having raised anchor, the ship was pulling away from the wharf, the dragon’s sights set on the dark horizon. Makino watched as another bullet landed in the water, narrowly missing the hull. “‘Emperor Red-Haired Shanks to be executed, on account of not being able to keep it in his pants’,” she recited, flicking her eyes up to meet his. “Although I still maintain the true crime is the pants themselves.”

He threw his head back at that. “Oho! Well, the offer still stands to take them off, if you’re so inclined,” he said. “I don’t know which way you want to spin this—the more general officer and prisoner? Or maybe the age-old classic of pirate and marine?” He grinned, and purred, “You can raise my bounty, although to be fair, you’ve already done that a few times tonight. As a matter of fact, you’re doing it right now.”

She laughed—she couldn’t help herself. The shouting from the docks had gotten louder, but he still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. A few years ago she would have felt sick to her stomach pulling off a less narrow escape than this, but he’d grown well-versed in distracting her worries.

“Maybe I’ll hand myself over willingly—or maybe  _you_  can give me a hand,” Shanks continued, bumping his hip against hers suggestively. “You could read me my rights, although I can’t promise I’ll be silent, but then you already know I’m loud in the bedroom. You’re allowed to use whatever I say against me, though. God, there are  _so_  many possibilities. They say piracy inspires obscenity, but I should make a list of all the navy-related euphemisms I can come up with, send it to Marineford. I imagine Tsuru would get a kick out of it, if no one else. Old girl always had a soft spot for me.”

He didn’t stop talking, each new suggestion lewder than the last, and with her breeches still unlaced and her earlier concerns forgotten, Makino was still laughing as they drew away into the night, chased by gunfire.

 

—

 

Of course, that wasn't the end of it.

“You  _stole_ it?”

The shamelessly self-satisfied grin he was already wearing only widened at the shrill note in her voice.

“Pilfered,” Shanks chirped. “Lightly. A  _very_ minor offence compared to what they had us charged with.” He wagged his fingers for emphasis, the gesture innocent but his smile lewd. “Thievish fingers, the skills of which you’rewell acquainted, might I add. I don’t know why you’re surprised—you know I can’t keep them to myself if there’s somewhere to stick them.”

Her unamused look was cheerfully ignored—unlike her blush, which only made his grin stretch wider. “It’s not like it’ll be missed,” Shanks said, when her entirely unconvincing glare persisted. “And they probably had to file a new one after we broke out, with extended charges.” A beat of consideration passed, before he added, with near palpable delight, “I wonder what they put in it. We weren’t technically in public the second time, although I doubt debasing Government property is any better. But hey, we’re pirates, what did they expect? At least I didn’t take a piss in that cell, I have  _some_ sense of decency—why are you looking at me like that?”

Makino stared. She held up the arrest report, the gesture like an accusation. “Shanks. You had it  _framed_.”

Looking unduly pleased with himself, “It’s an anniversary gift,” Shanks said brightly. “To commemorate the occasion.” He shook his head, as though to himself. “And they say marriage kills all romantic sentiment. They obviously haven’t met us.”

Pressing her lips together didn’t help kill the startled smile she felt forming wholly despite herself, and she could tell he’d caught it from the way his eyes twinkled.

She considered the report in her hands, the official-looking print and the coffee stains, both neatly preserved behind glass and a solid oakwood frame. The laughably formal description of an affair that had been anything but, although she suspected ‘ _over-enthused couple caught boning like horny teenagers_ ’ wouldn’t make for an appropriate report, however more apt the description.

Shanks was looking at her, rocking back on his heels. And sheknew that look—that giddy, barely-contained excitement. “So I was thinking—”

“We’re not putting it in the galley.”

She knew that pout, too. “But I got the pretty frame with the gold edges! It even matches the one I got for your first wanted poster.”

Makino stared him down, but he just parried it with another grin. And it was impossible to duel against that kind of relentless good cheer; she wasn’t the first to admit defeat where that was concerned, although Mihawk had never had to suffer the tender mercies of an over-affectionate husband with an unconventional idea of what constituted as  _romantic sentiment._

She handed over the report with lingering reluctance, although even that fled on fast feet, chased by the smile he gave her. “As long as you put it out of my line of sight.”

He kissed the top of her head, happy as a clam and looking it, and that might have been the end of her grievances where their semi-exhibitionistic escapades were concerned, but she should have known it wasn’t the case, from the  _grin_ she felt curving against her crown, as Shanks quipped, and with enough delighted cheek to warrant every ridiculous charge to his name—

“Is this the wrong time to mention that the tavern we were caught behind put up a plaque in our honour?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've still got plans for a continuation of Scylla, but in the meantime, have this ridiculous interlude of my beloved pirate marrieds. There is, unfortunately, more where that came from.


	2. WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garp as Makino's closest-thing-to-a father is a recurring thing in my writing, and I wanted to write more about him in this verse, quietly (and not-so-quietly) enduring Makino's developing career as a pirate.
> 
> This takes place during Scylla's second and third chapters, from right around the time Makino gets her first bounty and up to the events in Marineford.

Section meetings had always been unendurable affairs ever since he’d climbed the ranks high enough to be forced to attend. There was always too much talking and not enough _doing_ , and he’d never been comfortable sitting still when there were more important things to be done than bemoan the state of the world and the ever-burgeoning age of piracy.

He usually slept through most of them and the brass usually let him, but he’d just taken a seat and lifted his eyes to the noticeboard when Garp abruptly realised that there’d be no dozing through this meeting.

A wanted poster bearing Makino’s picture stared back at him from where it hung, stapled to the board with the day’s agenda, the price on her head seeming no more important than the rota listing who was in charge of cleaning the coffee maker in the break room.

They’d issued a bounty.

Part of him had already known this was coming, but like so many things relating to the girl, Garp had been reluctant to look at it too closely, always edging away from the truth that was staring him in the face now, from a picture that didn’t belong on a wanted poster—the picture of a girl who didn’t belong in that world, the one where her name was equatable with a sum of money, and her worth measured in infamy.

It looked incongruous, lined up next to similar posters, full of leering, self-satisfied grins and obscene poses. Looking at it, Garp thought it might have been taken while she'd still been a barmaid, for how _innocuous_ it looked. She could have been behind her bar, polishing a glass, and looked up just as the photographer snapped the shot, her smile a little startled but her cheeks curving her eyes, her surprise a pleased one, tender and affectionate.

He didn’t want to think about when the picture had been taken, or what — or what was likely the case, _who —_ had prompted that look. Just hearing Red-Hair’s name stoked his temper these days, but now he had to look at the result of his meddling. And there was no turning back for her now that her name was in the navy records. There was no escaping back to a life of obscurity, of safety, as he’d hoped she would once she came to her senses.

A godsdamned _bounty._

There was a moment where all he did was stare at it, one of many, but more than any of the others, it seemed to compel all the attention in the room—which it did, going by the numerous glances he caught shifting in that direction, their gazes lingering a little longer than was strictly professional.

Garp tried not to think about _that_ , either.

“We’re here to discuss a recent development.” The voice broke through his rogue thoughts, the firm edge lining the words seeming directed at Garp in particular, but he didn’t look at Sengoku, just kept his gaze fixed on Makino’s wanted poster.

His blatant inattention didn’t derail Sengoku; then again, very little did. “As you all know, Red-Hair’s usurping caused something of an imbalance in the New World, but it seems to have settled somewhat. As much as anything settles on that sea.” There was a shuffling of papers, but Garp was barely paying attention, as Sengoku added, “We’ve raised the bounties of his crew accordingly, but it’s been brought to our attention that we’ve missed a rather crucial member of his inner circle.”

A murmur washed across the room. Garp still hadn’t taken his eyes off Makino’s picture.

Sengoku continued, “The details regarding his marriage are unclear, but our intel tells us she is dangerous, and not to be taken lightly. Skin deceives, so do not let her appearance fool you. She is as much a force to be reckoned with as Red-Hair.”

The details weren’t unclear to Garp, but he didn’t point that out. They’d married before entering the Grand Line; it was three years almost to the date. Red-Hair’s phone call was still painfully fresh in his memory.

 _I’ve been teaching her_ , he’d said; Garp remembered the delight in his voice. And then, with that infuriating, _tender_ pride — _She’s got a knack for observation haki_. _It’s a little terrifying._

Sengoku was still talking, outlining a recent skirmish between the Red-Hair Pirates and a division of Big Mom’s fleet, a last-ditch attempt to fill the power gap left by Red-Hair’s usurping, to claim that corner of the New World for Charlotte Lilin. They hadn’t succeeded, of course; Garp had heard when the news had first reached Headquarters, but the confrontation had raised a few alarms. The last thing anyone needed was a war for power; that sea was already in a precarious balance. And as Red-Hair had shown the world, that balance could be toppled.

They were calling him _Emperor_ now, likened with Whitebeard, with Kaidou, but all Garp could think of was the twig of a brat on Roger’s ship, with that annoyingly loud laugh and the smile that spelled _trouble_ from a mile away. Roger’s shameless favourite, but Garp hadn’t paid much attention back then—not to a pubescent boy without a feather of scruff on his chin. But Roger had known.

_That kid is going places, Garp! Mark my words, he’s not just a pretty face. I'd say ‘lock up your daughters’ but he’d probably just pick the lock, the cheeky brat!_

Makino had run off with that brat—had married him. Roger was probably having a damn good laugh in the afterlife, but Garp couldn’t find anything even resembling humour in the situation.

Pirates didn't marry; they didn't bind themselves willingly to anything but the sea, and least of all to a spouse. Garp had known his share of that type, and Red-Hair was no different. That charm might have convinced Makino otherwise, but once the novelty wore off—once she was nothing but a pretty girl spirited away from a sleepy little port—what would become of her, now that the world had handed down its judgement?

“Dangerous?” someone asked, the query slipping under the steady droning of Sengoku’s voice. “That girl?”

“So they say,” someone else answered. “I heard she can compel the sea to do her bidding.”

A laugh, short and disbelieving. “ _What_?”

“When Red-Hair usurped his seat, there was this huge battle, yeah? Well, there was a freak whirlpool that took out half the fleet they were up against. They say it was _her_ doing.”

“Shit, seriously? What kind of devil fruit lets you control the _sea_? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of the curse—that whole thing where you’re doomed to sink or whatever?”

“We don’t know if it’s a devil fruit. Our intel doesn’t say, but it has to be that. Although...”

“What?”

“It’s just hearsay. It’s probably not true.”

“ _What_?”

They’d lowered their voices. Garp suspected they didn’t want to be overheard speculating the validity of sailor's superstition and rumours.

“They say she’s some kind of deity—that the sea took the shape of a woman and married Red-Hair, and that she's got his crew under her protection. I heard she took his heart as payment—ripped it right from his chest.”

“Fuck. No wonder they slapped that bounty on her head—if that's true, she's terrifying.”

Garp stopped listening. He was looking at the amount printed below the familiar tagline, the damning declaration of ‘WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE’ in bold, black letters, below which sat her name, the simple truth of it as sharp a contrast to the bounty as her picture.

It was a considerable number. They didn’t issue that kind of reward for just any pirate, and part of him wanted to laugh, seeing it, remembering the girl as she’d been, quiet and demure, all soft-spoken words and her hands softer still. She’d never aspired for the spotlight, for fame, content with her life, with her books, and of owning no more than what she had; a queen of a small kingdom, not a corner of the most dangerous sea in the world. She’d be mortified to see what that world would pay for her arrest.

Another part of him felt like mourning that girl, knowing there was no room for her in the world she’d entered into. A marriage with Red-Hair didn’t promise quiet, nor did it promise safety. The bounty to her name now was testament enough of that.

The meeting dragged on, the subject shifting, to other pirates and other matters, and he wasn’t sleeping, but he wasn’t paying attention either.

Beside Makino’s wanted poster hung an old one of Red-Hair’s, the last that had been issued before he’d usurped his predecessor. And the worst part by far wasn’t her bounty, but the realisation that it didn’t look _wrong_ — the two of them, that small, pleased smile offset by the shit-eating one that had always struck Garp as a particularly annoying legacy of Roger’s. Not the husband he would have wished for her in a thousand years, but she’d made her choice regardless, with everything that came with it.

He tried to remember what they’d talked about the last time he’d visited Fuschia. She’d been shyly secretive, and tellingly smitten. The most honest face he'd ever seen, she couldn’t have hid her infatuation if she’d tried her hardest, although thinking back on it, Garp didn’t think she’d been trying very hard.

He tried to imagine her now, three years a wife and a pirate, and not just any of either—the wife of an Emperor.

He didn’t notice the meeting coming to an end, or the room clearing of people. It was only when Sengoku stepped into his line of sight that Garp dragged his eyes away from Makino’s wanted poster.

“Garp,” Sengoku said slowly.

Garp met his eyes—held his gaze. A muscle twitched in Sengoku's cheek, but he pretended not to see it. “What?”

“Red-Hair’s wife,” Sengoku said, with that telling lilt that harkened back to their rookie days, when their squabbles had mostly been over who’d eaten all the rice crackers in their dorm room, or who’d forgotten to hang a sock on the door (both were usually Garp; the first was still a recurring issue, the second thankfully not). It was the tone that said Sengoku knew damn well he was on to something. “She looks an awful lot like the girl in that picture on your desk. The one with your grandson.”

“Coincidence,” Garp said, without inflection. He’d long since put the picture away, tucked in a drawer and out of sight. For whose sake, he wasn't rightly sure. Probably his.

Sengoku just looked at him. “Garp,” he said. “Any information you might have could be useful. As it stands, we have nothing on Red-Hair.”

Garp looked at Makino's wanted poster—found the same kind eyes, dark as the sea, and the same pert nose, but something had changed. There was a small, almost cheeky tilt to her smile, and she wore her hair differently, he saw now; still in a kerchief, but wrapped around her head like a bandanna. It was bright red, no cheerful flower print in sight. A quiet declaration, maybe, and she was the sort to appreciate that kind of sentiment, but it struck him then, looking at her.

She looked like a pirate.

And it was finally beginning to dawn on him, after three long years of denying the truth, that she was one.

“I don’t know who that girl is,” Garp said as he rose to his feet, and before Sengoku could open his mouth to protest, shouldered past him and made for the door. And in retreating—because that was what he was doing, there was no denying it—he could feel her eyes following him all the way back to his office. Not disapproving—no, worse than that. _Understanding_.

And it would have been easier to bear his own inability to understand her decision if he'd thought she would have blamed him for it.

  

—

 

“They say she seduced him.”

The words didn’t register at first. A navy base full of hormone-driven teenagers didn’t exactly invite polite smalltalk, and he got his day's worth of explicit recounts just crossing the mess hall to the coffee machine, even from some of the older veterans.

He'd almost crossed the room when he heard the answering remark, making him pause. “Yeah? I’ll believe it. I mean, just look at her. Those eyes don’t look human.”

“Well, she’s not,” came the gleeful response, from a lieutenant seated at a table to his left. He hadn’t noticed Garp stopping, brows furrowing as he realised who they were talking about. A glance at the group revealed a familiar wanted poster laid out across the table between them. “I heard he dragged her out of the ocean, naked as the day she was born. Married her the same day.”

Laughter from around the table. “Come on, man. Really?”

“What? Like that’s the strangest thing to happen on this sea! There are mermaids on Fishman Island—maybe she’s some related species.” There was a pause, and then, “Dunno who’d want to marry one, though. Then again, they say Red-Hair’s a few timbers short of a functioning ship, so I guess he’s liable of doing something like that.”

“What, marry a sea creature?”

“If she looks like _that_ , I don’t really blame him.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point. Christ, she’s _hot_. I wouldn’t mind if she seduced me, to be honest. Would be interesting just for the novelty, I guess. I’ve only ever been with humans.”

“Well if they ever catch her, maybe you’ll have your shot. She’d probably be willing—I mean, she’s the only woman in that whole crew. Captain's wife or not, do you really think she’s restricted herself to Red-Hair? She’s probably warmed all their bunks—”

The words choked off, and the bench clattering to the floor threw a hush over the mess hall so profound it slammed down like a weight.

“Vice-Admiral!”

The startled shout sprang into the quiet, but Garp barely heard it. The lieutenant whose neck he had in a chokehold was thrashing in his grip, his feet dangling a good foot off the floor and wet, spluttering gasps struggling past his parted lips. His mouth was gaping, spittle forming at the corners and his wide-sprung eyes seeking Garp’s, confusion and fear spreading like the bluish tint to his skin as he fought to breathe.

There were hands pulling at his shoulders then, attempting to tug his arms away, to make him release his grip. And there were people shouting, but he didn’t hear them, gaze locked on the officer he was holding, watching as his consciousness faded, breath by gasping breath. He thought, calmly, that he didn’t mind if they demoted his ass for this.

The wanted poster on the table caught his eye, and then Makino's face flitted across his mind, no cheeky curve to her smile now but gentle disapproval, drawn in the downwards slant of her mouth, and Garp's anger faltered.

Her late mother had disapproved on almost everything he'd ever seen fit to say or do, and had been loud and unapologetic about it. Makino had never even raised her voice in his presence, even the odd times he’d torn one of her doors off its hinges or broken a glass, but he felt the quiet objection now as if she'd shouted it, not a rebuke but a plea, from that too-kind heart that had never wanted to be the cause of anyone’s distress, never mind what happened to her.

It was with immense force of will that Garp slackened his grip, and the lieutenant dropped to his knees, wheezing. The whole mess hall had formed a circle around them, their faces wrought with shock. And Garp was known for being unpredictable and prone to violent outbursts, but never against a fellow officer, and seemingly unprompted.

He was keenly aware of their eyes on him—the disbelief and terror on the faces of his recruits, and his colleagues.

“Sorry,” Garp grunted, the word bit in half. It tasted like a lie, but he savoured it. His glare didn’t lessen, and the lieutenant scrambled away from him. “My hand slipped.”

He’d turned on his heel before he could be questioned further, ignoring Sengoku’s look as he made for the training grounds. He needed to punch something—or run a mile, whichever impulse claimed him first; it didn’t matter which it was as long as he managed to purge the regret that was filling his chest like saltwater, drowning him where he stood. He needed a distraction, from himself more than anything.

But also to suffocate the persisting urge that still itched under his fingertips, to stride back inside the mess and toss the mouthy little fucker into the bay.

 

—

 

It took a few hours to wrangle his temper into something manageable—and five practice dummies, which he’d left for the rookies to clean up before retreating to his quarters, bone tired and craving a strong drink, or five. One for every practice dummy he’d torn through, maybe. A fitting symmetry.

The chair creaked under his weight as he eased into it, and he'd just gotten comfortable when he caught sight of the day’s newspaper, laying on his desk—saw the picture above the fold, the front page article.

The oath slipped out with his breath, and Garp pinched the bridge of his nose. Not a goddamn moment’s _rest_. It was like the whole world was conspiring to remind him of the one thing he couldn’t forget if he tried.

He looked at the ceiling, and wondered how long this would go on—wondered how long before he stopped feeling that festering bitterness, if he’d ever escape it, or if he should just get comfortable with his regrets.

But he’d barely had the chance to consider the thought before another claimed it’s place—Emiko, arms crossed over her chest and her disapproval like a slap. A lingering presence in his life, even in death.

 _That girl never made a choice she didn’t stand by,_ Garp could imagine her saying, fixing him with those glacial eyes that always felt a little bit like being physically seized.  _I’m not saying it’s a good choice, but damn it if I’ll let you wallow over her decisions, Monkey D. Garp! She’ll live and die by her own will, or so help me I will drag my rotting corpse back from the grave to beat the sense back into your thick-as-brick skull!_

Gaze dropping back to the paper, there was a second where Garp just looked at it, before he reached out to unfold it. He saw the photograph in full—found Makino laughing, the candid shot seeming to have caught and held the sound, imprinted on the page like the ink. He could imagine it easily enough. The years hadn’t taken that, at least.

It had been taken on one of Red-Hair’s islands, from the looks of it. There were photographers who tailed famous pirates across their turfs and earned their paycheques by selling their photographs to the tabloids. Garp suspected this to be the case, as few official photographers dared move onto Emperor territory.

 

 

> _Yet another island under the flag of Emperor Red-Haired Shanks. Our journalist must ask the difficult question—is this a call for a stronger navy presence in the New World? The World Government’s foothold has never been weaker, and pirates like Red-Hair can only take advantage._
> 
> _Pictured above: Makino (“The Maelstrom”, current bounty: 750 000 000_ ) _, whose popularity with the locals is said to be the reason for Red-Hair’s growing influence in the region._

 

She was surrounded by smiling people, Red-Hair included, standing off to the side, observing her. The article itself was mostly a list of speculations, weighing Red-Hair’s influence against that of the other Emperors, and drawing attention to the easy acceptance of the islands now under his protection, telling of ignorant locals who didn’t know better but whose fealty might not be so easily offered to pirates if the Government had a stronger presence in the New World.

But the picture told a different story, and Garp knew it wasn’t ignorance that had made those people susceptible to Red-Hair’s charms—or those of his wife, who stood at the centre of their delight and affection, like she’d never been anywhere else. The girl Garp had known would have quailed at the attention.

A knock on the door to his office, and he looked up in time to see Sengoku ducking inside, needing no more than the prompt announcement to invite himself, although Garp knew he wasn’t there as his commanding officer, even without glancing at the bottle of whiskey he carried with him.

The bottle was put on his desk, before Sengoku took a seat in the chair opposite. “Drink, then talk,” he said.

Garp raised a brow, before flicking his gaze to the bottle. The label was faded, the seal around the cork and the contents untouched. It was a few decades old, he knew, because he’d been there the day Sengoku had been presented with it. “That’s your most expensive bottle.”

Sengoku shrugged. He took a bite out of the rice cracker in his hand. There was a half-crumbled bag sticking out of the pocket of his uniform.

Garp eyed it. “You’re not going to offer me one?”

He got a look for that. “You can have the priceless whiskey. Hands off the rice crackers.” He bit into another one, as though to punctuate his point.

Garp didn’t touch the bottle, but that didn’t hinder Sengoku, who continued eating even as the silence stretched out between them, broken only by his excessively loud chewing. There were crumbs gathering in his beard, and there was a moment where Garp just stared at them, and the quiet significance. Sengoku didn't allow many people to see this side of him, the one that wasn't a perfectly pressed uniform and an impeccably oiled beard, but then they'd been in the same division as rookies, and Garp had seen him in worse states than slightly dishevelled and with a trail of crumbs down his front.

Swallowing a mouthful, Sengoku considered the bag in his hand, before lifting his eyes to Garp, and announced evenly, “I had a son.”

The words had barely left his lips before a grimace pulled at his mouth, sharp and sudden and writ with regret, before he corrected himself, “Well. The closest thing to, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Garp said, shifting in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Whatever he’d expected Sengoku to say, it hadn’t been that. “I remember.”

“I regret a lot of things in my life,” Sengoku said. He wasn’t looking at Garp now. “But loving that boy isn’t one of them.”

Garp looked at the bottle of whiskey, then at the newspaper he’d put down beside it, and Makino’s laughter. She’d had a bottle like that, sitting on the top shelf in her bar, untouched. An old vintage worth her whole establishment three times over. He’d never asked where she’d gotten it—realised suddenly that Red-Hair had probably been the one to give it to her.

His own regrets didn’t take long to locate, but then they seemed always to sit just beneath the surface.

“You never talk about your son,” Sengoku said then, drawing his attention back from where it had escaped him, back to a time where he would step off the docks in a sleepy little village, and find a girl running towards him, holding her skirt up to keep from tripping; a time where he’d tuck a worn book into her hands, brought from across the world, but squirrelled away before her mother could catch wind of it. It had been their little secret, but she’d long since stopped sharing her secrets with him—like the whiskey, and the man who’d brought it, before he’d taken her in turn.

“I don’t blame you for that,” Sengoku continued, undaunted by his silence. “And you never mentioned that girl beyond the picture you kept. I didn’t ask—I just assumed she was yours. A love child, maybe. It’s not uncommon in our profession.”

“No,” Garp said—agreement, but also a rebuttal. He’d never strayed from his wife, the few years they'd had together. “She wasn’t that.” But in saying it, he thought of the baby girl sleeping in his arms, all the way across the East Blue to Dawn Island, her lashes dark against her small cheeks and her little mouth pursed, and Shakuyaku's parting words—

_I had hoped you could find her a good home. Her mother would have wanted it. Someplace quiet, where she'll be safe._

He'd met her request with disbelief, Garp remembered.  _Why the hell are you asking me? Why not get Roger to do it—doesn't he help you out with your damn business?_

 _I'm asking you because you're a good man, Monkey-chan,_  she'd said, simple as that. _And because I trust you._

He thought about the baby with those endless dark eyes. He didn't know where she'd been born; even Shakky hadn't known that, but her birthplace didn't matter. Her home had been the little island he'd taken her to, and her mother the woman who'd raised her. And Garp...

Garp had been whatever she'd needed him to be.

“She wasn't my kid, but she might as well have been," he said at length, remembering how she'd laugh, the endearing little giggles as he'd struggled to remember the things that had never come naturally to him as a father. Dragon had been an exceedingly serious child, even as a baby, but Makino had been easy to delight, quickly spellbound by little distractions, and his own laughter.

Sengoku's nod was heavy with understanding. “Garp,” he said, bringing him back again. That happy little girl was over twenty years gone, although her laughter remained, captured in the photograph that kept dragging his eyes back. “Children will choose their own lives to live. You can’t decide it for them. What you choose to do after they’ve made their choice is up to you. You’re allowed to disagree, but you have to decide if disagreeing is worth losing them.” Then he added, wryly, “Wallowing in self-pity is, regrettably, not an option. However, I’ve found talking about it helps.”

Garp snorted. “That’s not the tone you usually take with me. Last time my kid caused trouble, you yelled at me for ten minutes.”

A tired smile lifted the corner of Sengoku’s mouth. “I am a marine as much as I am— _was_ a father. Balancing the two isn’t always easy, but conflicting loyalties is something I’m familiar with.” He cut him a look. “But on that note, your son has caused the navy enough grief to warrant more than just a reprimand, as you are well aware.”

Garp grunted, but didn’t disagree. Dragon was a whole other matter, but the regret was the same; the ever-haunting question of whether or not he could have changed things.

Sengoku’s expression hadn’t wavered from that quiet understanding, and Garp didn’t need to rehash this old grievance. They were old men getting progressively older, and maybe this was what they were good for now—eating rice crackers and counting their collective regrets.

“But while we are on the subject of your wayward family,” Sengoku said then, and the arch of his brows this time was distinctly wry. It was another invitation, but more so than the knock on the door—more so than even the bottle of whiskey. “The girl married Red-Hair of all people?”

Garp sighed, a sigh that held three long years in it, but this time he accepted.

“Hand me the damn bottle,” he said, as Sengoku complied. “I need to be shitfaced for this conversation.”

 

—

 

Sengoku didn't ask about Makino after that first talk, understanding that Garp had said what had needed saying, and likely realising that even if he'd had information about her, he wouldn't have shared it. Garp appreciated the small courtesy, if only because there were enough reminders to be found, even when he didn't actively look for them.

And anyway, Luffy asked about her constantly.

“Have you seen her?”

Garp very pointedly didn’t look at the straw hat resting against the boy’s back, still a little too big for his head. At twelve years old he was skinny as a birch, all awkward angles and sharp cheeks. Dragon had been the same, Garp remembered wryly. All limbs.

“No,” he said at length, and reached out to adjust his stance, but Luffy didn't seem to be paying attention to the lesson. Nothing new there, although his distraction this time seemed curiously introspective, for a boy who preferred doing to thinking. Garp knew—they were a lot alike, that way.

Luffy's features drew together in a pout, puckering the scar on his cheek. “Why not? I thought you were supposed to hunt pirates.” He cocked his head, squinting his eyes accusingly. “Maybe you’re not as good as you say you are.”

A knock to his head put an end to his cheek, and the soft yelp that escaped him was followed by a particularly colourful curse. Garp made a mental note to have a chat with Ace about what kind of language he was teaching his little brother.

“I have more important things to do than chase Makino down across the Grand Line,” he told him, the gruff scrape of his voice letting slip more than he wanted, but then the boy had always been a little dense about picking up on subtleties in speech. “And you have more important things to do than ask about her. Like your training.”

Pout still firmly in place, Luffy muttered under his breath, rubbing the sore spot on his head. And abruptly, Garp remembered Makino—the same age, eyes too large for her face and filling rapidly with tears, the scolding from her mother smarting more than the pinched ear.

He blinked the image away, and then it was just Luffy, staring at his feet. He'd pressed his lips together, and before Garp could tell him to watch his posture, asked quietly, “Do you think she misses me?”

His irritation fled. And there was no cheek in that answer, just a terribly earnest curiosity, and a vulnerability Garp hadn’t seen since he’d come back to find Makino gone, and a seven-year-old holding back his tears and stubbornly refusing to sell her out.

_I’ll be a pirate, too—just like Ma-chan! And you’ll never catch us!_

“Yeah,” Garp said, and when Luffy looked up, startled, reached out to ruffle his hair. That at least he could say with certainty, even if he hadn’t seen her in years. Whoever she was now, whatever the sea had made of the girl who’d left this island behind, he didn’t doubt that she’d kept her heart. Garp didn’t think even the New World could change that, and the kindness in it, even if the sea itself had little of that to spare.

“I know she does.”

 

—

 

Ace only asked once.

"Why did she leave?"

It was asked after a long stretch of silence, the question seeming to have come from deep within his thoughts, and Garp didn't need him to clarify who he was asking about.

Luffy was with Dadan, and it was just the two of them, seated behind the cabin and watching the sun sinking below the treetops, the waning light limning the leaves with gold. They rarely spoke on these occasions, but sometimes they would. Ace was sharp—a little too sharp for his years, and sometimes it was easy to forget that he wasn't talking to an adult.

And he could have lied, or evaded the subject altogether, but, "She fell in love," Garp said, after a pause.

Ace looked at him, although his gaze went beyond Garp, seeming rather to consider the words. His brows had drawn together pensively, and Garp tried not to see Roger, but it was difficult not to, with that keenly calculating expression.

"What does that mean?" Ace asked then, and Garp almost smiled, because however sharp that mind, he hadn't experienced _that_ yet. It wasn't something you could understand through sheer reasoning, however stubborn.

"It means," Garp said, searching for the words, although he didn't have to look long, "that she chose Red-Hair."

"Chose him?"

The question was offered haltingly this time—hesitantly, and even a little hopefully, although Garp doubted Ace was aware of the last one.

"That's what love is," Garp said. "It doesn't always let you choose, but choosing is when you know it's real."

"...that doesn't make any sense, Gramps."

Garp shook his head, his smile small. "Nah, I guess it doesn't. Not yet, anyway."

Ace was quiet. He sat crosslegged on the grass, the knees of his shorts scuffed and dirty. The parting sun touched his hair, brought out that faint reddish hint amidst the black. His father's features had always been the most prominent, but his mother's had a way of gently asserting themselves—in the thick clusters of freckles dotting his cheeks and shoulders, and the high, regal cheekbones. The hair that was more than just pitch black.

"How does someone choose you?" Ace asked then. "How do you know?"

"You just know," Garp grunted, aware already before the furrow between his brows deepened that it wasn't the answer he wanted. And so, "People show it in different ways," he said, before he paused, and added, without really knowing why, "Makino left to be a pirate."

"Because she chose Red-Hair?"

Garp nodded. "Yeah. And all that came with it." Every last, cursed bit.

"Even if all of it isn't good?"

Garp looked at the boy, carrying that too-heavy legacy, out of sheer defiance if nothing else. He didn't rightly know which of his parents that trait had come from.

"You don't get to decide what's good or not," he said, and watched as Ace blinked. "And sometimes, they won't care."

He got a considering look for that. Not openly dubious, but still not fully convinced. Somewhere within the cabin at their backs, Luffy was laughing, the sound chased by Dadan's shouting. Garp saw as it drew Ace's attention, before releasing it.

"Luffy said she was kind," Ace said then, worrying a blade of grass between his fingers. "That she gave good hugs."

Garp nodded. He forgot sometimes that it had been so many years—that even if she'd sometimes watched the boy, Ace's memories of Makino weren't as clear as Luffy's. "She is," he said. Then, his look softening a bit, "She does."

"Luffy said Red-Hair was the same."

Garp's lips firmed, something too tight to be a smile, but his snort was acutely dry. "I've never hugged Red-Hair," he said. "Couldn't say if he does."

Ace was quiet a moment. Then, "Red-Hair chose her too, didn't he?"

Whatever Garp had planned to say left him, but when he looked at him, Ace just met his surprise with a level look, as though he hadn't figured out the whole concept yet, but that the beginnings of a vague understanding were starting to take root.

"I guess," Garp acquiesced, although the word he would have used was _taken_ , not chosen.

"I want to meet them," Ace said then, looking up at the trees. The sun had gone down, the sky a darkening bruise above the canopy. "One day."

"You might," Garp agreed, with a firm look. "When you join up."

Ace didn't say anything to that—not like his brother would, with loud defiance at the mere suggestion that he'd be a marine, but that didn't mean Garp didn't see it, written in the lines of his face. _I would choose_ , his expression said, loud and clear.

And Garp didn't know what that choice would be, but he'd long since acquainted himself with the knowledge that whatever it was, he would have precious little to say in the matter.

 

—

 

His gradual acceptance of Makino's decision was slow in coming, and didn’t come easy, but then Garp doubted he would have had much choice but to accept. Ignoring it was at least out of the question. The meetings at Headquarters let very little slip where Red-Hair's goings-on were concerned, and whatever gaps were left the newspapers were quick to fill.

They didn’t garner the same headlines as the other Emperors. Instead, the papers depicted the quiet reign of a popular pair. Benefactors rather than conquerors, the public adored them, thriving off the outlandish rumours with a vigour that awarded them a near-celebratory status, but also relishing in the small glimpses of domesticity, caught in a kiss pressed to her temple, or a small hand cradled in a larger one. Their backs to each other, swords drawn; for Garp, the most telling detail of all.

She guarded his left side, her place there as easy as the hilt of the sword that rested in her hand, as though she’d always been holding it—as though there hadn’t been a time where that hand had cradled glasses with care, to polish the smudges no one else could see. Garp didn't need to ask to know who'd given it to her, or question the obvious thought that had gone into the choice. It suited her; the small size, the steel wrought with delicate care but the edge as sharp as any other.

He'd never seen her fight. He hated that he was curious. Red-Hair was one of the greatest swordsmen in the world, and even if he had trouble picturing it (the girl with the soft palms, the gentle touches), he couldn't help but wonder what years under that tutelage had made of her.

They got into their share of trouble. Unavoidable with a crew like that, holding the status they did. And Red-Hair ruled his corner of the sea seemingly on a whim, but Garp knew strategy when he saw it, and knew nothing Red-Hair did was accidental. There was an awareness there that invoked his former captain; a knowledge that seemed to look beyond the present, to the future that no one could predict. And yet Red-Hair always seemed to know where to be when the tides shifted, and how to navigate the wilful currents when their tempers changed.

It took effort to accept, but at least there was a drop of comfort to wring from the fact that if there was any safe place on the Grand Line for Makino to be, it was on that ship.

Garp stayed out of their way. Not necessarily through any active attempts on his part; it was just how things naturally aligned. His own business rarely took him far into the New World, and Red-Hair hadn't ventured into Paradise since Makino's first crossing.

And yet in spite of this, there was one instance where the Fates conspired for them to cross paths. Or at least nearly.

“Vice-Admiral Garp!”

The shriek greeted him on his way through the door to the little navy base, Coby and Helmeppo in tow. He'd been ashore less than an hour when the alarm had sounded, and he hadn't known what would greet them when they arrived, but he would come to regret asking.

"What the hell happened here?"

A group of young marines were gathered in the break room, all of them looking a little dazed. One was emptying his stomach loudly into the trash bin.

A junior officer, cap askew and his pistol fumbled between his hands, saluted shakily. "It was Red-Haired Shanks, Vice-Admiral!"

Garp went suddenly still. "Red-Hair?"

The rookie looking up at him seemed to have wet his pants at some point—and seemed wholly unaware of the fact. Garp wasn't going to point it out. "H-he was here! We arrested him! B-but then—"

"You _arrested_ Red-Hair?" Garp asked, cutting him off. He knew he sounded dubious, from the way the boy flinched. "You sure it wasn't just someone who looked like him?" Any redhead in ugly shorts would do. Then again, the missing arm wasn't as easy to mistake.

The kid shook his head furiously. "It was him! We're sure. He was with his wife—" Something like terror flashed across his face at that, and Garp thought he looked ready to piss himself again, "—and we think they must have been after Government secrets!"

He wondered if his expression conveyed just how little he believed that to be the case. "That right?"

He got an eager nod for that; the boy didn't seem to have picked up on the dry note in his voice. "They let us arrest them! It-it's the only explanation!" He flushed, and looked suddenly embarrassed. "We—ah, didn't know who they were when we brought them in. We only realised after we'd already put them in the cell."

Garp blinked. _That_ he hadn't expected, although he didn't know why Red-Hair would have allowed himself to be arrested in the first place. "Then what the hell did you arrest them for?"

The kid's blush deepened, and Garp immediately regretted asking, as he stuttered out, "Er—well. Y-you see, it was—they were behind this tavern, and we—we caught them in the middle of—and _she_ was—" Then with a great gulp of air, practically screeched, " _We arrested them for public fornication, Vice-Admiral!_ "

There was a moment of absolute quiet, wherein Garp regretted ever having stepped off the ship.

"Isn't Red-Hair in his forties?" he heard Helmeppo murmur. Coby looked visibly uncomfortable. "Also, isn't this the guy who's supposed to be Straw-Hat's hero or whatever? Some idol."

Garp quietly agreed, but, "Where are they now?" he was asking then, before he could stop himself, but the sudden temptation to catch a glimpse was almost enough to make him forget why he shouldn't want to.

The marine looked visibly embarrassed. Garp honestly didn't blame him. "They broke out," he admitted, with obvious shame, although the persisting blush had a different reason, Garp suspected. "We—we weren't a match for them." Then he looked at Garp, and with a wholly serious expression, said, "We think she cast a spell on us—that she did something that made us give her the keys. When we came to they'd unlocked their cell and escaped! We sounded the alarm, and there was a group who went after them, only—" He blanched, and Garp saw that his knees were shaking. "She's just like the rumours say she is! Beautiful, like—like you've never seen, but then if you let her look at you, her _eyes_ —"

The rest was apparently too terrible for words, and Garp saw as the boy became aware of his state—and the admirable attempt he made at ignoring the stain in his crotch. Worthy a recommendation, if for nothing else than stubborn dignity. "Where is this tavern where you caught them?" Garp asked.

Still flustered from the recount and his piss-stain, the rookie stuttered the directions, and without another word, Garp turned for the door. The alarm was still blaring, but Red-Hair's ship was fast, and likely long gone. And Makino with it.

"Vice-Admiral?" Coby asked, as he fell into step beside him, Helmeppo following suit, although without the same barely-contained eagerness. "Do you think they'd go back there?" There was a hitch of breathless anticipation in his voice. "Are you hoping to catch them?"

"No," Garp said, as he strode through the door, the words _public fornication_ seeming to have burned themselves into his head.

"I need a fucking drink."

 

—

 

The rumours about her had gotten progressively more ridiculous as the years passed. She was a sea witch, or something more fey. She could control the sea—she _was_ the sea. Some said she was the real captain of the Red-Hair Pirates, other said she had Red-Hair enthralled (although there, at least, Garp suspected they were on to something). She inspired awe and fear in equal measure, to the point where her reputation almost eclipsed Red-Hair’s own.

“Did you hear?” the murmur crept across a table in the galley, and Garp watched as what looked like his whole devision leaned forward to listen. “About Red-Hair’s meeting with Whitebeard?”

“No? What happened?”

“There was a confrontation. They said he went for his wife.”

“What—that Whitebeard did?”

“Yeah. Apparently, it made Red-Hair lose his shit.”

“What about her?”

“I heard one of Whitebeard’s commanders tried to kill her," someone said, from somewhere in the back. "Marco, you know—the one they call The Phoenix? Someone said he flew her off the ship. Probably tried to drop her from the sky.”

“Then what happened?”

“The whole sky split in half!”

“ _What_?”

“I know! Red-Hair is pretty terrifying.”

“Yeah, no shit. Shows that you shouldn’t go after a man’s wife.”

“Or it shows that you shouldn’t bring your wife to work.”

“I don’t know, man—are you sure she wasn’t the one who brought Red-Hair with her?”

“What are you smiling about, Vice-Admiral?”

Coby's voice rose up, louder than the surrounding conversation and bright with curiosity, but tempered into politeness with that near-rigid discipline the kid exuded like his whole body had been shaped from it.

Unaware that he’d been doing it, Garp let his smile drop. “Nothing, Coby. Was asleep with my eyes open.” He picked his nose. “Probably just had a good dream.”

Coby only nodded, seeming to find nothing amiss with that statement. Garp had the mind to wonder how often he fell asleep with his eyes open.

The talk around them hadn’t lessened. The clash between Whitebeard and Red-Hair was on everyone’s lips, and the speculations flourished—what could have prompted it, and what it meant for the stability in the New World. Emperors stayed out of each other’s way, it was an unspoken rule, but something had happened that had made Red-Hair break it.

Garp didn’t need to speculate long to garner what was most likely the reason. He’d been keeping tabs on Ace for a while, had gathered what he was doing. It wasn’t beyond believing that his self-imposed manhunt had become common knowledge, and if anyone could put a stop to it, it would be his captain. And if anything could have prompted Red-Hair to confront Whitebeard, it would have been Makino.

Garp allowed the talk to wash across him, only half-listening. They were discussing Makino now, as was usually the case where the two of them were concerned, their names often mentioned in the same breath, and Garp couldn’t escape that fact any more than he could escape the smile on her face, on every picture the papers saw fit to print.

He didn’t really care about her involvement in Red-Hair’s business—didn’t care if it was her business in truth, or whether she could do half of what the rumours claimed she could. He knew she was a formidable swordswoman—even if he'd never witnessed her skills in battle, he didn't doubt that, like he hadn't doubted Red-Hair's words all those years ago: _she's not going into this unprepared_ —but everything else would have given him pause, even if he hadn’t known her before Red-Hair and the sea had gotten hold of her.

No, Garp only cared about that smile—the one that spoke of happiness. The only thing he’d ever wanted for her, even with her husband a pirate, and her no less than that.

  

—

 

It had been ten years since she'd first run off to be a pirate, when Garp saw her again in person.

It wasn’t the reunion he would have chosen if it had been up to him, but then nothing in his life seemed to be up to him anymore. The lives he’d wanted for them, the kids who were his even when they weren’t really, they weren’t his to decide. Recent events had made that painfully clear, although Garp had always known.

Marineford lay in broken pieces around him. Ace was dead, Luffy mortally injured, and Garp had stopped _nothing._ Not the execution, or Luffy; not Akainu or the whole damn war. No, the one who’d put an end to it—who had the power, who changed the tides whichever way it damn well suited him—was Red-Hair.

Garp watched the group that had stepped ashore, off the ship that had slipped in without anyone noticing, the serpent in the water you didn’t see before it struck. And he knew all their names, and the bounties attached to them—Ben Beckman, and Yasopp. Lucky Roo, and every cursed soul in the crew that should have left well enough alone, but that had pillaged more than treasure the day they’d set off from Fuschia for the last time.

And he had his share of reasons to hate Red-Hair, but the anger Garp felt rising within him now had no equal in the ten years that had passed since he’d stepped onto the Fuschia docks and been handed the news—

_Oh, Makino? Didn’t she tell you? She left with the Red-Hair Pirates a few weeks ago. Set sail for the Grand Line. A pirate! Could you believe it, our sweet Makino-chan?_

He could forgive Red-Hair for a lot of things, but bringing Makino to a war—to _this_ war, straight into the heart of the goddamn battlefield, where there were so many enemies they couldn’t be counted and where she stood out, small and slender in the midst of the sea-worn pirates around her, like a single flower sprouting from the ravaged soil, a target all but begging for a bullet—Garp had no forgiveness in him for that.

The whole damn world knew who she was. And if Blackbeard thought to fell another Emperor in the same breath as Whitebeard, sensing an opportunity…

If anything happened to her now, Garp would personally make sure Red-Hair never made it out of Marineford.

And oh, he was _angry_ , but then, like the day he'd entered that meeting room and seen her wanted poster for the first time, the minute he fixed his eyes on her, Garp forgot everything else.

He couldn’t identify the feeling that overtook him, but knew it wasn’t anger this time. That had fled the moment he’d laid eyes on her, when he’d seen her, really _seen_ her, for the first time in ten years.

She stood at the heart of the group, flanked and backed by her crew. Red-Hair had planted himself right in front of her, but the formation was anything but subtle.

She looked older, was his first thought. And he'd seen the photographs, the updated wanted posters, and he knew, logically, that it had been ten years and that she wasn't a girl anymore, but seeing her now seemed to drive home the fact more than anything in the past decade.

And something about her seemed—off. Garp couldn’t put his finger on what it was, taking in the healthy colour in her cheeks, and the softer lines of her face. She looked well—looked well-fed, and there was something bright and unnamable in her eyes that sparked an inkling of recognition in his memory. It was a contentedness that suited her physical wellness, even as it contrasted with the serious press of her features, and the severeness she carried about her like the cloak she’d wrapped herself in—rich, sea-green velvet and silver embroideries stitched along the high collar where it enclosed her neck, the silver clasps catching the cold light slanting off the ice. She wore no further ornamentation, her hair braided back from her face, no red bandanna in sight. Regality achieved in simplicity, a truth that neither asked nor demanded to be accepted, it just was.

Her hand sat poised on the hilt of her sword, the small wakizashi hanging at her hip like it belonged there, and the regal lift of her chin didn’t leave room for anyone to question if the woman herself had anything to do on that battlefield.

She looked, for all the world, like an Empress.

Red-Hair was talking then, and he’d always been a damn chatty brat, Garp remembered, but he couldn’t deny the effective weight of the words as he chose them now. And chatty or not, he always knew the right things to say—knew that his voice commanded attention, and it radiated off him now, that surety. He hadn’t walked into this war on a whim, and Garp found the same to be the case for the woman standing behind him, far enough that there was a marked difference, but the crew surrounding her gave another impression.

Garp thought of the pieces on a chessboard, arranged for battle. The rook, finger on the trigger of his rifle, and the bishop, his presence as large as his bulk. The knight, ever-wary and watching the enemies around them, mapping out the board. Each and every one of them positioned with intent, protecting the king. And between them, the queen; the most powerful piece on the board, standing at the king’s back.

“Oho,” the voice curled through the quiet, and something in Garp _seized_ —a new fury that nearly shoved him to his feet, even as it crippled his limbs.

“You have good taste, Shanks,” Blackbeard said, the leering grin wide enough for even Garp to see. There was blood running from his brow, to drip off his chin. “I was wondering if she’d be as pretty in person.”

A gun cocked; the rook moved, swift as a breath, and Garp saw Makino draw her sword—heard the sound where it sang through the air, the reaction so instantaneous it seemed to have slipped between seconds. The blade caught the grey light, silver steel like the delicate clasps at her neck, but there was nothing delicate in the angle as she raised it, even with the slender hand wrapped around the hilt.

And he’d known for years that she didn’t carry it for decoration, but it was a different truth, seeing it—seeing _her_ , something fierce and protective in her expression as she held it before her, not just a pirate or an Empress this time, but something else; something more dangerous than either.

If he hadn’t been quite so worn down, so grief-ridden and tired, Garp might have realised where he’d seen that expression before. He might have remembered the freckled face looking up at him, her eyes clouded with exhaustion, the light already fading from them but the press of her mouth a terrible thing as she stared him down. The king lost but the queen still in play, keeping the game going out of sheer force of will alone.

He’d remember her later, the war over and the son she’d entrusted to him dead and buried, but in that moment all Garp could see was the girl who’d walked into that war like she could put an end to it with her own two hands.

And looking at her now, her sword raised and pointed at Blackbeard like she might strike him down with her next breath, Garp wondered if that wasn't exactly what she was there to do.

 

—

 

She found him later, after the ceasefire had settled. An awkward truce, stumbling like a newborn fawn between bodies who knew how to fight, but who didn’t know how to put down their weapons when the fighting was done.

Garp didn’t have the strength left to fight anyone, let alone his own better judgment, or the stubbornness that had kept him away for ten years; that had kept him from seeking her out, when he knew he could have. She hadn’t been lost to him, even if he’d considered her to be that.

Her pregnancy came as a surprise, and he hadn’t been prepared to face it, so close on the heels of accepting that the girl he’d known was really _gone,_ not because she’d been lost but because she’d grown up—because she was a woman now, and a pirate. An Empress as much as her husband was an Emperor, and now an expectant mother. And it wasn’t what he’d wanted for her, of course it wasn’t, but the look on her face—the laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes, and that contented, _proud_ smile—

“We wanted this for a long time,” she told him quietly, seeking his eyes. His own were on her stomach, round with that tender burden, the truth hidden by her cloak, but now that he knew, Garp couldn’t unsee it—the reason for the healthy flush in her cheeks, and that uncanny glow. Her softer lines, and the heavy weight of her hair where it fell down her back, a thick, intricate braid so long it brushed against her spine.

Makino looked over her shoulder then, sought Red-Hair where he stood with the rest of their crew. Garp watched her nod, something unspoken passing between them, and didn’t even feel surprised.

“Makino,” Garp said, before she could lift back to her feet, and when she looked at him he tried not to see the last pregnant woman he’d known, who hadn’t made it to see her son grow up, however long that had turned out to be. Twenty years; barely a life lived, but Ace had made his choice, in the end. No one had taken that from him.

The words stuck to the roof of his mouth, refusing to be spoken, as though speaking them would somehow invoke the same fate for her, but, “Be careful,” he told her, because he had to—because he couldn’t let her go this time without having said it. His most recent losses were too fresh, the wounds too tender to bear the thought of losing her too, and without having said the things he’d spent ten years hoarding, along with his regrets.

And he might have said more—a whole damn more than just those two pathetic words, which didn't say anything, not really, not after _ten years_ —but Makino just looked at him and smiled, as though those ten years didn’t matter. As though forgiveness could be offered so easily, but then, girl or woman or pirate or mother, that heart was the same, and so maybe it wasn’t hard for her, to forgive him.

“I will,” she said, and when she made to rise to her feet Garp helped her.

He watched as she walked back to where Red-Hair waited—caught the questioning touch of his fingers to her stomach, before his eyes shifted to Garp. But he didn’t come over, and Garp was relieved, because he didn’t know what he was feeling, and didn’t think he wanted to find out. He still itched to punch his lights out, but there was more to it than that. Not yet forgiveness—not for Red-Hair, who’d taken too much, who’d changed too many things. It would be a while before Garp felt he could forgive that.

But Red-Hair only nodded, as though something had been decided between them; as though another truce had been brokered, but not with words this time, even if it was with the same ease he breezed in anywhere, changing the currents to suit his own needs.

Garp didn’t return the nod, but watched as they departed, their ship waiting; the red dragon idling in the icy waters, frost crystals lacing the hull. As quickly as they’d come, they were leaving, the war ended but little that resembled peace left in their wake, although their interference had been crucial, there was no denying that.

And Garp didn’t look at Red-Hair as they made to disembark—didn’t watch the hand that reached out to help Makino onto the gangway, and that always lingered at her back, ready to catch her, mindful of the slippery planks and the care with which she carried herself.

Instead he looked the woman who stepped onto the ship, the one who’d walked into a war with her head held high. Not as though she’d been born to this world, but as though she hadn’t been and knew it, but had made a place for herself in it, anyway.

 

—

 

Marineford was two months behind him (two months with Ace buried; without knowing what had happened to Luffy), when the Den Den Mushi rang.

He was tired—was _retired_ , at least on paper. All he held now was an honorary title, and a handful recruits under his command. Enough to keep him occupied, but not enough to actually constitute as active duty. That way, the Government wouldn't suffer the scandal of having him quit, and Garp was allowed to do whatever the hell he wanted, at least as long as he remained in Akainu's periphery.

There was a second where he considered letting the call go unanswered, but the last time he’d ignored one from Headquarters he’d had to hear about it for a week afterwards (Akainu didn’t have Sengoku’s patience, or Sengoku's anything, really; Sengoku's damn goat would have made a better Fleet Admiral, but Garp's suggestion hadn't been all that well received, the last time he'd made it, although at least bringing it up had officially gotten him out of attending meetings), and so it was with reluctance that he grabbed the receiver—although not without making them suffer a bit first.

“Yeah?” he asked, and didn’t even make a point of pretending to be anything but bothered.

A longer beat passed where he received no answer, the snail staring back, its expression blank, before its eyes curved in a familiar smile, and Garp started even before he heard Makino's voice come over the line.  _“Hey.”_

Garp stared at the Den Den Mushi, her smile still in place. She hadn’t called him once in the ten years since she’d left Fuschia; only Red-Hair had done that. And Garp hadn’t expected her to call now, even after their meeting in Marineford.

A number of reasons for why she might be calling leaped out at him, each more terrible than the last, but he didn’t know how to ask—didn’t know if he could bring himself to do it, having already lost so much. And there wasn’t anything more to lose for him, not really. She wasn’t his daughter, and it wasn’t his grandchild. Not really, and yet—

There was a sound then, from her side of the line—a tiny little _coo_ , small but unmistakable, and his heart lurched in his chest.

 _“I thought I’d call to tell you,”_ Makino said, as Garp struggled to remember how to breathe. _“We have a son.”_

His throat felt like it had closed up, but he managed to find his voice, grating like he'd shouted himself hoarse. “A boy?”

He heard her laughter, sounding tender and pleased. In the background, the baby made another noise, prompting a different laugh—a deeper timbre, and the first notes of a familiar sea shanty, the words too low to make out but the melody easily recognisable. Roger’s favourite, Garp remembered, and didn’t know what to name the knot in his throat this time.

 _“Yes,”_ Makino said, and in the same breath, her own voice thick,  _“He’s perfect.”_

He thought about her, stomach heavy with her child and her expression fierce, stepping into a war. No more hesitation in her decision than any other she’d made for herself.

 _“We decided to name him Ace,"_ she said then, quietly.

He felt the tears gathering in his beard and didn’t care. In the background, Red-Hair was still singing. “Ace?”

_“Mm. We thought it would be a good legacy to pass on.”_

And Garp remembered her now—the long, strawberry blonde hair, matted with sweat. Her eyes had been tired, but she’d been proud; a queen to the very last. _Ace for a boy, Anne for a girl._

“Everything good with you?” he asked then, because with that memory came another, of prying a wailing baby from the stiff cradle of her arms, and the stubborn smile that had stayed on her face into death. That whole family had accepted their fates smiling.

There was a longer pause. Then, _“It is now,”_ Makino said. Garp noticed that Red-Hair’s singing had stopped. _“It was—an ordeal.”_

He didn’t like the sound of that, but before he could point it out, along with the fact that ten years as a pirate and she was still laughably bad at convincingly evading a subject, " _I could tell you about it, if you want?”_ Makino asked.

She'd phrased it as a question where she'd used to take it for granted, once—that he would listen. When she'd been younger and had delighted in telling him about her books, she would do it without prompting, sharing the stories she'd loved, all the kings and queens and wars and rebellions; the lush, sprawling kingdoms and the romances in them, her eyes wide and the words stumbling over her tongue in her eagerness. Garp hadn't understood half of it, but he'd still listened when she'd told him.

She had her own kingdom now, of sea and brine; a castle of timber, with masts instead of towers. A king that wasn’t quite a king, but she was every bit the queen that had once been a princess, her apron stained and her pockets stuffed with paperbacks. And he’d spent ten years only knowing what she was doing through rumours and hearsay, through newspaper articles and meetings, and he was tired of knowing her second-hand, the woman she was; the one she’d become since she’d been the girl he’d known once.

His acceptance came without thinking, this time—came without hesitation. Her own influence, Garp suspected, but couldn’t find anything wrong with the realisation, or his own choice as he made it.

“Yeah,” he said, and saw the snail as it relayed her smile, so wide this time it tilted her eyes. In the background, Red-Hair had resumed his singing, before a happy _shriek_ carried over the line, drowning out everything else, even Red-Hair's laugh, but Garp latched onto the sound, loud and bright and _new_.

“That’s what I want.”

 

—

 

They kept in touch, after that. Well—as much as one kept in touch with family on the other side of the law, but Garp kept her in his sights, the two long years that followed the war.

The rumours about her still flourished. Her bounty had inched up a few million after their interference in the war, but the papers hadn’t caught on yet about their child, and Garp had done his part to ensure it stayed that way, at least for as long as possible. Red-Hair had made an enemy in Marineford, and Akainu would be looking for leverage to tip the already teetering scales of the New World. He took a more aggressive approach than Sengoku ever had; Garp lamented the quieter days, when the World Government had felt like an organisation worth fighting for. The world was never the same for long when the sea never stopped moving, but at least he'd recognised his role in what it had been, before Akainu. Before Blackbeard.

The first time Makino asked him about it, he was surprised—before he wasn’t, recognising that her own role amounted to more than just the wife of an Emperor.

And so they talked, not about books or fictional kings, but about the shifting political climate, and the tensions in the newly rebuilt Marineford (arguably not something Garp ought to be sharing with a pirate, but he was retired, and Akainu could fuck off). They talked about Blackbeard, an Emperor now, and about Luffy—about Ace, the first, stumbling steps taken across the deck of her ship, and the loud little laugh that sounded so much like Red-Hair’s, Garp could never unhear it. They  _talked._

Of course, there were things they didn’t speak of, a silent agreement that Garp suspected was as much for his sake as it was for Makino’s.

He never asked her about the arrest report that had somehow made its way onto his desk—a copy, because the original had apparently been lost. It was almost two years old, but someone had stumbled across it, on account of it regarding a certain notorious Emperor with a penchant for shameless exhibitionism, and within a week it had been the talk of the whole damn navy, but a single glance at the words _indecent exposure_ and he’d vowed never to broach the subject.

He was still learning to accept a whole host of things, but certain aspects of her life were meant to be kept private, Garp decided, no matter what a spectacularly poor job Makino was doing at keeping them that way.

“You so much as breathe a word about that report,” he told Sengoku, grey-haired and in cheerful civvies and looking more at ease than Garp had seen him look in two odd decades, “you better damn well have a bottle of whiskey stuffed in those ugly-assed shorts to help me forget that you did.”

 


	3. She's a Pirate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lovely person on tumblr asked about the incident mentioned in Scylla's first chapter, where Makino sprains her ankle in a close encounter with a group of marines, and as always, I had so much fun with this verse, this instalment ran away with me completely!
> 
> Set during the first part of Scylla, sometime after they've reached the Grand Line but before Shanks gifts Siren to Makino.

They said the Grand Line challenged even the steadiest of hearts, and she'd known already before they’d left Loguetown that it wouldn’t be the same as sailing the East Blue, but even if she’d mentally prepared herself for what might await them on that sea, there were some things that had to be experienced to be fully understood—like the dangers that followed every step of their voyage, seeming to lurk just beneath the surface. She’d always taken the sea at face value, and the East Blue had allowed that, had been honest and fair; an open heart that kept no secrets. The Grand Line was neither, revelling instead in tricking the unawares, with a rapidly shifting temper that changed as quickly as the winds and the seasons of the islands they passed.

Makino tugged her cloak closer, restless fingers worrying the silver clasps at the collar, closed tight around her neck. The comforting weight of the velvet warmed her shoulders, blunting the dagger-sharp edge of the wind. It was colder than she’d anticipated, stepping off the ship. Just yesterday the weather had been sunny, and the air carrying a warm breeze, but on this island summer seemed to have fled completely, the trees lining the path into the little town burnished red and gold, and the air crisp when she breathed it in, filling her lungs with sea and woodsmoke, and the sharper tang of an early frost.

They’d moored the ship along a secluded part of the shore, a good distance from the actual port, to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to themselves, and it was a brisk walk across the little island to get to the town, but she’d welcomed the opportunity. A few months of seafaring behind her and she was still finding her sea legs, and had eagerly grabbed the chance to stretch them on solid ground, which didn't tilt beneath her; a small blessing, with her precarious balance.

She considered the supply list in her hand, making small adjustments in her head as she walked. Usually, she’d get someone to go with her, but they’d suffered some damage to the ship escaping a freak storm, and they’d needed all the hands they could spare for the repairs. And anyway, it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle by herself. They didn’t need much, just some coffee and sugar and a few spools of thread for her sewing, nothing she couldn’t carry back alone, and she wondered if it was mostly for her own sake that she’d suggested they restock, when they could have easily waited until the next port to do so.

But Shanks had only nodded when she’d voiced her wishes, and sent her off with a kiss to her hair as he remained to oversee the repairs, although it hadn’t escaped her, the fact that he probably knew why she'd asked. Adjusting to a life at sea wasn’t easy when you’d lived your whole life on land, and she did miss it, sometimes—her bar, and the little things that had been hers; time to herself, and space that wasn't so easily claimed on a busy, crowded ship. And she missed the everyday things, the tender buzzing of a small-town life, where everyone knew everyone's business. He didn’t begrudge her stealing away for a bit to reacquaint herself with it.

The leaf-strewn footpath had started sloping downwards, the air so cold now she could see her own breath, and the sight of the harbour had her heart skipping in her chest, watching the grey stone houses dotting the path towards the wharf. It was bigger than Fuschia, although nowhere near as big as some of the ports they’d visited, Loguetown included, but there was something familiar about it, still, observing the people in the streets as she walked down, and listening to the deckhands singing as they unloaded their cargo, crates and barrels and sacks stacked along the wharf where the ships were moored, their sails rolled up and their masts bared like the autumn trees shedding their leaves behind her.

It wasn’t quite homesickness. No, home was somewhere else now than the port she’d left—was the ship anchored by the shore behind her, and the pirates on it. But it still made her smile, walking into the town, the smell of ale brewing in the local taphouse blending with the brine and the chimney smoke, to wrap around her as she lost herself among the crowd and the chatter, of people who went about their day and their business as they always did, and these were the moments where the Grand Line didn’t seem so foreign after all.

The air grew colder, brittle with frost where it coated her tongue, but Makino didn’t mind it, hands tucked safely within the folds of her cloak as she acquainted herself with the port, the little shops and the storefronts nestled by the town square, which held an old stonework fountain, the water nearly frozen save a last, stubborn stream where it trickled between the folded hands of a mischievous-looking cherub.

She got her errands out of the way quickly, her list completed in less than a hour, along with a few additional things—tobacco for Ben and suture thread for Doc, and a bottle of plum liquor from the local orchard to share with Shanks. And she’d meant to head back to the ship when she found herself lingering by a bookshop, considering the display in the window, the bright and colourful covers stealing a moment of her attention, and her focus away from the port behind her, imagining what might hide between the pages. Because her life might have changed, resembling the adventures of the heroines in her books, but her penchant for stories was one thing she hadn’t left behind in Fuschia.

She was contemplating going inside when a voice spoke up behind her. “Miss,” it said, but it took the speaker repeating himself for Makino to realise she was the one being addressed, as she turned to find a navy officer watching her warily. He was an older man, streaks of grey in his hair and moustache, and a straight-backed, almost rigid posture that would have betrayed his rank even if he’d been wearing civvies.

She felt as her heart jumped in her chest, taking in the white coat over his navy blue suit. And she’d grown up with Garp visiting, had spent many hours of her childhood looking for his sails on the horizon, the seagull with its wings spread, and the symbol had never made her feel anything but safe, but she couldn’t help the quickening dread within her now, recognising abruptly how much her situation had changed—that she was no longer a law-abiding barmaid in a remote little port, someone who’d never draw the attention of the navy, but a pirate on a vast, lawless sea, and in a world that didn’t need proof of a crime to pass its judgement.

Swallowing thickly, “Yes?” she asked, and was glad when her voice remained steady, even if it sounded a little short of breath. She tried not to let her face reveal how nervous she was, and forced herself to keep her eyes trained on the officer, and from fleeting to the square around them, to check if the others had followed her, even as she knew they wouldn’t have. Shanks respected her need for space, and the privacy to claim it.

She’d never before wished so fiercely that he didn't.

She caught sight of several more marines from out of the corner of her eye, moving in around her, and saw from their uniforms that the one who’d addressed her had to be the officer in charge. And they hadn’t drawn their weapons, but the way they’d circled her, as though caging her in, was suggestive enough. They weren't there to ask for directions.

There shouldn’t be a marine base on this island. Shanks had told her as much, and Makino doubted he would have conceded to letting her go off on her own if he’d believed differently. It had to be a visiting division, although the realisation only served to underline her bad luck, and even more than that, just how woefully out of her depth she was, alone and unarmed.

She hoped he couldn’t tell that she was as nervous as she felt, but from the way his brows knit together above his eyes, Makino felt suddenly certain that he did.

“What’s your business here?” he asked. He had a loud, commanding voice; one that was no doubt used to being heard, and answered with respect. He swept his eyes across her once—looking for weapons, Makino suspected, but she wasn’t carrying anything, only the satchel with her supplies and the clothes on her back, although as she thought it, she became uncomfortably aware of how much she stood out from the people around her, the women especially, some of whom had stopped to observe what was happening. And there’d been a time not too long ago where she would have blended in perfectly, with her skirts and embroidered aprons and the kerchiefs in her hair, but looking at them now, she realised suddenly how _conspicuous_ she appeared, in her breeches and boots, and her velvet and silver-threaded cloak.

She hadn’t thought about it. After months of living in close quarters with pirates, of being married to one, even if she still didn’t quite feel like one herself, she hadn’t even considered the thought that anyone else should think differently—that they should look at her and assume she was exactly that.

“Just visiting,” she said. Not a lie, although she heard the slight waver in her voice now. Her eyes shot to the window display behind her, and before she could think too long about it, said, “I’m a—travelling writer. I just arrived.”

The officer cocked his head. “There’s been no new ships today,” he said, crossing his arms.

“I came in yesterday.”

“Yeah? On which vessel?”

It felt like an interrogation, and she didn’t for a second think he was asking out of genuine curiosity. She knew just from looking at him that he was aware she was lying, which meant he was just waiting for her to slip up and give him a reason to arrest her.

She felt her panic where it spread, climbing up from her stomach like the white rime on the stone fountain in the square, making her hands shake, and she clenched them together to keep it from showing, her fingers gripping the clasps of the satchel where it hung at her hip, half-hidden by her cloak.

She saw the officer’s eyes as they shot towards it, before they raised back to hers, and his expression didn’t let slip what he thought, but the fact that he’d approached her in the first place told her enough.

He’d known. Whatever she thought of herself, however little she still felt like a pirate, he’d looked at her and he’d _known_.

They’d attracted something of an audience now. Makino felt their curiosity as they passed, giving them a wide berth, and those who lingered, observing from afar. No one seemed inclined to step in or interfere, although she doubted she would have been eager to do the same, in their shoes. Especially if they really did believe her to be a pirate.

She still hadn’t answered his question, the prolonged pause more incriminating than even her face had to be, revealing all her feelings, and Makino knew there was no talking her way out of this. Not when his expression had already condemned her as exactly what he thought she was.

Panic was building in her chest in earnest as her options unravelled before her, one by one, cold, genuine _fear_ cinching around her heart and her whole chest, to trap her breath. And she didn’t know how she knew, only that she did, the sensation as sudden as it was staggering—the acute and unshakeable impression that he would reach for his pistol two whole seconds before he did, and she’d turned and bolted before she could think twice about it.

“ _Hey_!”

She heard his voice as he flung it after her, the lash of it like a whip to her back, but Makino didn’t let it stop her, fear and panic pushing her forward as she shoved between two of the younger marines, catching them both off guard, and too surprised to even reach for their weapons as she hurtled past them. And she didn't have a plan, but maybe if she could lose herself among the alleys in the port, she could find somewhere to hide, hopefully long enough for the others to come looking, which she knew they would if she didn’t come back.

She heard the soft _click_ of a trigger, the sound shooting through her even if the bullet hadn’t left the barrel, and thought for a terrified second that he’d shoot her down as she ran, and the fear that seized her was so forceful it made her miss a step.

She felt as her foot slipped on the icy stones, her right ankle folding beneath her, the pain ripping a startled shout from her lips as she hit the ground hard, her hands shooting out to catch herself, and she winced as the cold bite of the cobblestones scraped her palms.

Scrambling to turn around, she tried to push back to her feet but couldn’t manage, the single breath of pressure put on her ankle enough to make a blinding burst of pain explode behind her eyelids, and she could barely focus past it to look up at the officer as he stepped closer. He had his pistol drawn, and Makino heard the reactions of the people around them as they hurried out of the way, although not far enough to leave them completely.

“Guess my intuition was right,” he said, sneering down at her, his earlier wariness replaced with outright distaste. And she’d dealt with her share of discourteous customers, visiting sailors and merchants who’d been less than respectful in how they addressed her, or leered at her, but she’d never in her life been looked at they way he looking at her now—like a criminal, or a dog to be put down.

His gaze dropped to where her cloak had fallen open, revealing the sheer blouse beneath, and lingered only a second too long before lifting back to her face, his eyes tightening at the corners.

“They really do come in all shapes,” he said, with something like a scoff. “But a pretty face won’t save your depraved soul from the gallows. A devil is a devil, even if she is beautiful.”

She heard the others drawing their weapons, and saw how they’d circled her now where she sat on the cobblestones. Around them, people were murmuring, surprised and intrigued by the sudden turn of events.

Makino couldn’t locate her breath, or make her limbs unfreeze from where they’d locked together.

The officer watched her, calmly assessing. “I think I’ll save myself the paperwork, and just finish you here,” he said then, and her heart stuttered to a stop. “I haven’t seen your face in the records, which means you won’t be worth the effort of bringing in alive.”

He glanced at the junior officers, their weapons aimed at her now. “Suspect caught resisting arrest,” he said loudly, sounding as though he was reciting a report. His voice held no glee, just a hard sort of pleasure, as he turned his eyes back to Makino. “She didn’t get far.”

He brought his pistol up, the round mouth of the barrel staring her down, but she couldn’t move, her whole body turned to lead and her heart pounding against her ribcage so hard it hurt. A desperate sob had caught in her throat, unwilling to budge, realising that she had nowhere to run; that even if she’d had a shot at escaping, she wouldn't make it far with her ankle.

“You’re finished, _pirate_ ,” the officer hissed, and pulled the trigger.

Her eyes clenched shut, and she’d braced for the bullet, but it wasn’t what hit her as something else _slammed_ into her, the force like a strong gust of wind but solid like a wall, and the sudden pressure bearing down on her was so heavy she thought for a second it was going to cave in the ground beneath her. She felt it in her whole body, like it had seized her limbs, wrapped around her chest and her windpipe, even as it didn't hurt her, the wild surge of power leaving a shrill pitch ringing in her ears, beneath which she discerned the sound of something shattering, and people screaming as they fled the street.

But just as quickly as it had seized her, it was over, the pressure lifting like a weight off her shoulders, and leaving her with the curious feeling that it was carefully letting her go rather than forcibly releasing her. And there was something acutely _familiar_ about the sensation, but she was too scared and confused to make the connection.

Opening her eyes, Makino found the officer on the ground, along with his whole division, and several of the townspeople, scattered in heaps in a wide circle around her, like something had knocked them all down where they stood. The window of the bookshop she'd been perusing had shattered, along with several storefronts, and the stone fountain seemed to have cracked clean in half.

It took her a second to realise what had happened, and then another to force her breath out of her lungs, and this time it dragged the trapped sob in her throat with it, escaping her lips with a small, broken sound.

She heard hurried footsteps approaching from behind her, and felt him before Shanks knelt down beside her, his presence wrapping around her, and only then did she recognise it—that it had been _him,_ even as she’d never felt him that way, with that kind of violent intent.

Rough fingers tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his, and his expression wasn’t any kinder than his haki had been, although like his haki, his anger wasn’t directed at her as he asked her, “Are you hurt?”

Makino couldn’t muster her voice to answer, still reeling from what had happened. It was an effort just catching her elusive breath.

Shanks looked at the unconscious marine who’d been about to shoot her, his expression contorting into something suddenly unfamiliar and terrifying, and she saw him reaching for Gryphon, ready to push back to his feet, and before she could think she’d reached out to grip his hand, halting him from unsheathing it.

“ _No_ ,” she said, and felt as his hand jerked with surprise. Her own looked pathetically small in comparison, and she knew he could have shrugged it off in a second, but she only gripped his fingers tighter. When he looked down at her, she was surprised by the steel in her voice as she met his gaze without flinching. “I won’t have a life taken for my sake.”

Shanks looked ready to protest, but Makino didn’t back down, and didn’t say anything else as she held his gaze, silently daring him to contradict her. And she didn’t know if she was looking at him like her husband or like her captain, but didn’t care which it was—it didn’t change what she felt, or that her mind had already been made up.

He held her gaze for a long beat, the grey in his eyes cold as steel, harder than she’d ever seen them, and for a stunned second Makino wondered if he wouldn’t back down.

But then he did, and she heard his breath where he forced it out, as though it took physical effort to reign himself in, but she felt how his grip loosened around Gryphon’s hilt, the tension bleeding out of his knuckles where she’d covered his hand with hers.

Dragging his eyes from hers, Shanks looked to Ben, his expression blank now as he said, the command as hard as the voice speaking it, “String him up in the town square. The fountain will do.”

Ben’s smile had an edge, cut sharp around his cigarette. “Naked?”

“Like the day he was born.”

“What about the rookies?” Yasopp asked. He still had his rifle drawn, as though he hadn’t yet decided if he was going to use it. And Makino saw that they were all there now, having gathered around her where she sat, right at the centre of everything and with every gaze in her crew on her, including the ones already watching her from the town, whose interest hadn’t been deterred by Shanks’ terrifying display. Rather the opposite, they seemed even more intrigued now.

She felt suddenly exposed— _embarrassed_ that she’d drawn so much attention to herself, feeling suddenly like a burden, and the rest of her still gripped with that cold terror from what she’d thought would be her last moments. She’d never faced down death before, but she’d believed then, for those brief but terrible seconds, that she was going to die.

She started as Shanks settled his hand over her knee, dwarfing it, and it was a small relief, hiding herself against his bigger frame, retreating into it and away from all the eyes watching, and she felt as he let her, a sigh shuddering free of him as he ducked his head to press a kiss to her crown, although the way it lingered betrayed his anger, which she could still feel, somehow.

Her ankle was hurting so much it brought tears to her eyes, and she was grateful when he didn’t reach out to touch it, although she doubted it had escaped him, from the awkward way she cradled her right leg.

“See now,” Shanks said with a sigh, as he sought her eyes, “this is one of those times where I wish I had two arms. I could lift you up and carry you back to the ship.” His grin tilted, although the wry slant didn't quite succeed in smoothing the still-sharp edge. “So much for a sweeping romantic gesture.”

Recognising the attempt at soothing her frayed nerves, Makino laughed wetly. “That’s okay,” she said. “You’re never in short supply of those.”

Shanks opened his mouth, a suggestive reply no doubt already prepared, when, “I’ll do it!” someone shouted, before a chorus of agreement followed, and several suggestions rising up from the crowd around them.

“Don’t listen to him, Makino. I’m much stronger!”

“I’ll get you there faster!”

“I’ll make it the most romantic!”

Shanks shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “They better be careful, or they’ll be the ones strung up without a stitch.”

Her laugh this time left her without a sound, although it felt more like a sob from how it shook through her shoulders, and she saw from his expression that he’d noticed. But he didn’t pretend otherwise, nor did he look at all sorry as the others made to cheerfully drag the fallen marines into the town square, greeting the terrified observers as they passed.

“The ship?” Makino asked. She couldn’t imagine they’d finished the repairs so quickly, and knew they hadn’t all just showed up in the nick of time by accident. And she didn’t know how he’d known she was in trouble, but even as she considered it, she remembered his haki, the unforgiving _force_ behind it, and the keen awareness he always had about everything around him.

“A few more repairs needed before she’ll be fit to weather another storm, but it’ll hold until we get to the next port," Shanks said. He glanced at the town, and the people fearfully watching the pirates make an example of the marines. “Probably a good thing to get going, anyway. We’ve clearly overstayed our welcome. Shame, though. Was hoping we could check out the tavern before we left.”

She felt the grip of guilt, and dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

His gaze shot back to hers, and she nearly flinched back at the look on his face. “This wasn’t your fault,” Shanks told her.

Makino looked at their surroundings. “No?” She tried for a smile, but failed to even keep it. She murmured, “That’ll teach me to give you grief for attracting trouble without even trying.”

She felt as his hand touched her cheek, cupping it as he tilted her head up to look at him. His palm was a shock of warmth, and her relief shuddered out with a breath as she leaned into the touch, his hand large where it cradled her cheek. This time, his smile looked a bit more convincing, as he told her, “Had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before you started stirring things up. And this is impressive, even by my standards.”

Her laugh came a little easier, although it still sounded too strained to her own ears; like a discordant note she couldn't seem to will out of her voice.

“You sure you’re okay?” Shanks asked again, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek.

Makino didn’t nod, but said, “I’ll be fine. I’m just a little shaken, is all.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “You’re telling me.” When she blinked at him, his smile slanted, a little chagrined. “Haven’t been scared like that in a while. Good to know all my swagger and confidence hasn’t left me completely immune to the feeling.”

“I find it hard to imagine you scared of anything,” Makino said.

“Of losing you?” Shanks asked, not a beat missed as he held her eyes. “More than anything.”

Her breath caught, and she didn’t know what to say to that, could only look at him as he rose to his feet, his fingers grazing her jaw, before he allowed his hand to drop, and she watched as he turned to Ben, who was overseeing the others.

A hand touched her shoulder, gently requesting, and she accepted with a nod, before she was carefully lifted up and off the ground, barely paying attention to who was carrying her as she craned her neck to look for Shanks. And she didn’t doubt that he’d heed her wish of not killing them, even as she vividly remembered the cold stare of the officer who’d pointed the pistol at her, not even having bothered to confirm that she was as guilty as he’d judged her, no jury or executioner necessary.

And her wish remained true, but she was surprised by the small twinge of satisfaction within her, thinking of that self-assured confidence and the clear abuse of power, as she caught the last thing Shanks said as she was carried back to the ship, the cheer in his voice betrayed by the hard note of anger underlying it.

“A little more to the left. And spread-eagled. Or, well, spread…seagulled. Whatever. Yeah, just like that. Perfect. You know, I think I’ll call it ‘A Pirate’s Homage to the Navy’s So-Called Ethics’…”

 

—

 

Doc was already waiting for them by the time they got back to the ship, as though he’d known he’d be needed for something, if not exactly for what, although Makino caught the flicker of surprise on his face as she was carried aboard, before it yielded to a familiar, no-nonsense expression as he ordered her to be put down, before he went to fetch his equipment.

He was in the middle of examining her ankle when the door to their quarters opened, admitting Shanks. His eyes sought hers where she sat on the bunk, but he said nothing as he closed the door behind him, and Makino didn’t ask about the marines, although she heard someone outside calling for the anchor to be raised, and knew they were in the middle of departing.

“It’s not broken,” Doc said then, as he turned her ankle over. Makino tried not to wince as he prodded at it. “But it’s a bad sprain. I want you to stay off it until it’s healed.”

She nodded absently, and watched as he set about wrapping it. It was badly swollen, and just wiggling her toes hurt. Pulling off her boot had been agony.

Shanks was hovering, and making a demonstration of it, pacing the length of their quarters in silence, which Makino thought was louder than if he’d been talking, as he had a habit of doing when he was nervous, but this was a different kind of restlessness, too pensive to allow for inappropriate jokes and the press of his mouth too hard to let slip a smile, even for her sake.

She rooted through her mind for something to say to ease the tension, but came up short, her hands shaking where she’d tucked them together in her lap. And even safe in their cabin on the ship and about to depart the island and the port altogether, she couldn’t seem to relax, or to stop thinking about what had happened.

When Doc was finished wrapping her ankle, having endured their mutual silence with a wryly knowing expression, he repeated his orders of not putting any weight on it, cutting a sidelong look at Shanks before he made to leave, taking his equipment with him. Makino heard as the door closed behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything, the persisting silence pooling between them, seeming somehow greater without Doc present, a world unsaid in the depths of it, until she almost couldn’t take another second, finding it suddenly unbearable to endure the weight of his eyes without his voice to accompany it. She’d removed her cloak, leaving her only in her thin blouse and breeches, and she felt suddenly exposed, as though she might as well have been stark naked from how he was looking at her.

This was ridiculous.

“Help me up?” Makino asked, her voice jolting the quiet, sounding too bright, almost, but when his frown only deepened, huffed, “I’m not going to stay cooped up in here all day just because of a sprained ankle.”

Shanks didn’t respond immediately, just watched her where she sat, and Makino felt as her shoulders sank with her breath. “Are you going to be stubborn about this?” she asked.

He met her eyes. “Yes.”

She shook her head, a murmur slipped under her breath as she held out her hand for him to take. When he didn’t, she sighed, “Shanks.” Then, “If you don’t help me, I’ll just try on my own. I’ll hop one-legged all the way to the galley if I have to.”

“You’d get one hop towards the door before I caught you,” Shanks promised, and what the firm weight of command in his voice did with that wholly perfunctory remark had a startled shiver shooting up her spine.

Makino swallowed, and met his eyes now as she told him, quietly, “I could always take that challenge and see what happens.”

She saw the effect _that_ had, and how it loosened his whole posture, sending a wide, startled smile chasing across his beautiful mouth, and that hard note of tension fleeing their cabin, even as it left another in its wake, although this time of an entirely different, unmistakably intimate sort.

“Foul play, wife,” Shanks murmured, his eyes darkening where they beheld her, sitting on their bunk, the low rumble of his voice reaching deep within her, even as he hadn’t reached out to touch her. “What a pirate you’ve become.”

It was meant to be teasing, but she couldn’t help the way something in her _recoiled_ at the mention, the reminder resurfacing, and without mercy— _you’re finished, pirate_ —and she knew Shanks hadn't missed it, from the way his smile slipped off his mouth.

The intimate tension teetered, shakily attempting to regain its footing, before Shanks dispelled it with a breath, although the way he surrendered the last of his anger left no room for awkwardness, leaving instead an intimacy of a different sort.

She watched as he approached the bunk where she was sitting, before sinking down on his knees, and she was already reaching for him, her arms wrapping around his neck in a loose embrace as he rested his head in her lap, and she felt how his back heaved with his breath as he sank against her, his arm curving around her back as he pulled her close. And for a moment she just held him, smoothing her hands over the width of his broad shoulders, feeling how he breathed.

“You know,” Makino murmured, running her fingers through his hair. “I'm still a little on edge. I could use a drink. Something to help me relax.”

She felt as he tightened his grip around her, before Shanks drew back to look at her. “That’s a small wish. I should be able to do something about that.”

She smiled, and with a boldness that was never comfortable anywhere but privately between them—“I’d wish for something else while you’re already kneeling there, but I think I’ll save that for later. If you’re still in a giving mood.”

She felt how he laughed, the tuck of his nose against her ribcage, and her smile widened, suddenly, fiercely glad that she could make him react like that, whatever plagued him. “With you? Always,” Shanks rumbled. “Doc’s orders was to keep you off that ankle, but I can work around that.”

Her smile widened further, a little goofily, and when he drew back she ducked her head to seek his mouth, her kiss shy where her words hadn’t been, her lips pressed softly to his as she cupped his cheeks gently, although the way he responded was neither of those things, wasn’t soft or gentle as he pushed back greedily, and with a fervour that had her laughing against his mouth, even as she recognised what was behind it—the same, barely-contained desperation she’d felt before she’d stopped him from pulling his sword on that officer, and when he’d looked at her like he’d almost lost her, and told her as much.

She felt his arm as it released its hold on her, before his hand curved around the back of her neck, tilting her head down to deepen the kiss, and when she sank into him her laughter softened to a gasp, the rest of her body following suit as she melted.

“Still want to wait until later?” Shanks asked, her bottom lip caught in a kiss, and she answered by deepening it, pulling him closer as she opened her legs further.

His hand stroked down her back to grip her hip, his palm large where it spanned the whole of it and his fingers bunching in the fabric of her breeches, before it slipped under her blouse as he sat up a bit, pulling her towards the edge of the bunk. He made sure not to disturb her ankle where he kneeled between her legs, and she hesitated only a second, a familiar shyness holding her back before she hooked her fingers beneath the waistline of her breeches, to push them down her hips.

It took a bit of wiggling, and care so as not to jar her ankle, her frustration escaping with a breath and then a laugh as he grazed his fingers up her thigh, his callouses scuffing her skin gently, before he chased the touch with fleeting kisses, until her laugh softened to a breathless giggle, forgetting to be embarrassed even with her breeches caught around her knees and his beard tickling the sensitive skin along the inside of her thigh, his mouth hot enough to sweeten her breath with a moan.

She stopped thinking about her ankle, and about herself; stopped thinking about the whole, stressful day, feeling him instead, the anchoring weight of his hand over the small of her back as he went down on her.

He ducked his head between her legs, his tongue hot where it found her, already wet, and the hitch of her breath was met with a rumbling laugh as she tilted her hips towards his mouth, allowing him to take her, slowly and with a patience that felt almost greedy as he devoured her where she sat, her knees spread and her head tipped back. But she gave herself over, every breath and soft whimper, letting the remaining tension trickle out of her limbs, gasp by soft gasp, her hands fisted in the sheets and her back arching, her mouth parted in the shape of his name but her release silent as her whole body convulsed with a jerk, before she let go.

She came down with a breath, sinking into him as he caught her, his arm around her back as she tucked her cheek to his shoulder, all of her soft and boneless as the last shudder of her climax eased out of her, and when she let her eyes slip shut she kept them that way, her small body curled around his as she counted his heartbeats, steadier than her own where they raced, wild and breathless.

“So,” Shanks asked, the drum of his voice warm where he rested his head in her lap. “Better than a drink?”

Makino felt her laugh, sounding thick and sated. “Much better.”

“I’d have Doc prescribe it regularly, but I doubt he’d be so easily convinced. You know his views on alternative medicine.”

She couldn’t stop smiling, her fingers idly worrying the hair at his nape. “That wouldn’t stop you.”

She felt his grin, and the warm gust of his breath against her skin. “No,” he rumbled, unapologetic.

A kiss to the inside of her thigh, the scrape of his beard startling a shiver to race across her skin, before he drew back to look at her, his arm loosening its grip around her back, although he didn’t rise to his feet right away, remaining instead where he was, kneeling before the bunk.

Tugging her breeches back up, Makino tried to ignore the fierce blush in her cheeks, catching him observing her, and felt how it deepened when he deliberately wiped his hand over his beard, his gaze holding hers through half-lidded eyes, until she had to drop hers, flustered by the undivided attention, and her ankle happily forgotten.

Pushing to his feet, Shanks reached down to help her off the bunk, and supported her as she limped towards the door. He had to hunch down to help her on account of their differences in height, but didn’t complain, allowing her to take her time, breathing through her nose as she focused on keeping her weight off her ankle.

“Looking at you makes me glad the sea king took my arm and not one of my legs. I doubt I’d be half as graceful as you, floundering around with a peg leg,” Shanks mused, as he made to hold the door to the galley open for her, and the surprised laugh that blurted from her nearly made her miss a step, but he’d caught her before she could steady herself on the frame.

The others had looked up at their arrival, a rousing cheer greeting them both, along with half their crew springing out of their seats to help her, relenting only when Shanks shot them a warning look.

He helped ease her down on the bench by the long table, which was hastily cleared to make room for her, and Makino rolled her eyes.

“I’m not made of glass,” she told them pertly, as she settled down, but heard the soft sigh that left her when a large hand wrapped around her ankle, to lift it onto the bench. His fingers were warm even through the bandage, and for a spell Shanks just kept it where it was, the weight of it a curious comfort.

It took her a moment to notice that the others were being uncharacteristically quiet, and she opened her eyes from where they’d slipped shut, only to find them all looking at her.

Her sigh this time was patient. “Oh for heaven’s sake! I’m _fine_ ,” Makino said. “Really.”

They didn’t look convinced, and when she looked to Shanks for assistance, he met her silent request with an expression that told her she was on her own.

She looked to Ben, usually a fellow voice of reason, but he only raised his eyes from his newspaper and told her, without apology, “I would have killed him.”

“Hear,” Yasopp agreed, raising his glass, a gesture which was echoed across the galley. More echoes of agreement followed, along with several cheerful suggestions of alternative punishments, but Makino only folded her lips and stared back. They could disagree all they wanted; it wouldn't make her regret wanting to let them live.

“Then again,” someone spoke up. “If we’d killed him, we wouldn’t have the pleasure of knowing he’d wake up starkers in a freezing fountain with his—hum— _junior officer_ making a salute.”

Someone _whooped_ loudly, and even with her lips pressed together she couldn’t suffocate her grin, and ignored the ones looking back at her, knowing her cheeks were probably as red as they felt.

Shanks was smiling, although it was a more subdued smile than the grin she might have expected, had the situation been different. And for all their laughter, she recognised what sat behind it, and that it wasn’t just a minor offence to be shrugged off and forgotten. She knew that if they hadn’t arrived in time, she might be dead.

“Don’t mind the guys,” Shanks said then, his voice lowered a bit, as though meant just for her ears. “You gave them a scare. Violent threats and cheerful contempt of the law is just how they show they worry.”

Makino said nothing at first, considering the drink that had been put before her, even as she felt no taste for it now as she thumbed her wedding band idly, her thoughts churning.

She’d worried about it, long before they’d left Fuschia, after she'd agreed to come with him, if she could ever be a pirate. She'd wondered if she was even cut out for it, and if she could learn the things she didn't know, and adapt, or if she’d only be a disappointment—a burden to them all, someone who’d only be more trouble than she was worth.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Makino said, before she could stop herself.

Shanks looked at her, surprised. “You’re not.”

“I couldn’t do anything,” she said, clenching her fingers together. She didn’t think she’d ever forget what it felt like, being so utterly _helpless_. “That officer—”

“Was way out of line, even by the navy’s standards,” Shanks said, his voice suddenly firm, and enough to make her start, before it softened as he added, “And do you really think any of us would have had more luck outrunning a whole division of armed officers with a sprained ankle?”

“I tried, once!” someone called from across the galley, drawing their attention. “Got arrested, and broke my leg climbing out the third-storey window of the base where they were keeping me. Had to be piggybacked to the ship.”

“Don’t remind me,” another voice piped up. “I got shot carrying your weight!”

“Ooooh what about the time Yasopp got kidnapped?”

“Hey,” Yasopp shot back, offended. “Uncalled for.” Then at the look Ben shot him, added grudgingly, “I mean it’s true, but still uncalled for.”

“We had to untangle Boss from a fishing net once!”

Brows quirking, Makino looked at Shanks, who just shrugged.

“Were you naked?” she asked.

He grinned, predictably impish. “Do I even need to answer that?”

More laughter, and more recounts—of close calls and last minute rescues, and narrow escapes that defied probability so cheerfully, if it had been any other crew than hers Makino might not have believed them, each tale more outrageous than the last, barely allowing her a moment to catch her breath, until she couldn’t have held on to her worries if she’d wanted to. And recognising why they were doing it, it took effort holding back her tears, although she imagined some of them were from the gasping laughter she couldn't help, listening to their less-than-heroic misadventures.

His smile knowing—and a twinge abashed, as he featured into most of the stories in one way or another—“It’s not every man for himself,” Shanks told her, reaching out to touch his thumb gently to the corner of her eye, and the tears that had gathered in her lashes. “We have each other's backs. That’s always been the way of things on my ship.” He tapped her nose, before hooking his finger under her chin. “It’s what family does.”

Her smile wobbled. “It’s a strange family you've collected.”

Grinning, “As strange as they come,” Shanks agreed, before he dropped his voice to a murmur as he thumbed her chin gently. “A bit more than you bargained for, I wager.”

She shook her head. “I got exactly what I bargained for,” she told him—and the rest of them, who were all making an overt demonstration of listening. “And all I could have ever wanted.”

Just as she said it, the small sprig of a thought sprung up from where she’d repeatedly pushed it down over the course of the year she'd been at sea with him; the subject she hadn’t dared broach with him yet, of what they would do if they suddenly found their family growing. They weren't exactly being careful where that was concerned.

She was scared of what it meant—the fact that she wanted it so fiercely, and that she wasn’t sure how he even felt about it.

“You make a good crew mother, Makino,” Yasopp said, his eyes glittering, and from the wink he slipped her, Makino wondered if he'd picked up on what she'd been thinking, but whatever he thought about it, Yasopp only smiled, and kept her secret.

They were all looking at her now, all of them grinning, and just a little while ago she might have been too high strung to muster anything but a stuttered reply, but her limbs were loose, Shanks’ earlier attentions having eased away the last of her tension, and so she didn’t have to feign her smile as she said, “I thought Ben was the mother.”

Uproarious laughter erupted across the galley, and she caught Ben’s startled grin from behind the top of the newspaper, and under the comforting weight of the din, the familiar sound of them filling the whole galley, Makino allowed her shoulders to sink, her smile settling with ease on her mouth. And she wondered suddenly what Fuschia had been, if this was what _home_ felt like.

Turning her eyes back to Shanks, it was to find him watching her, his expression curiously unreadable. He'd settled his hand over her ankle again, the warmth of it seeping through the bandages and into her skin. “It’s exciting,” Makino said. “The pirate’s life.”

She watched as his gaze dropped to her ankle, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Yeah," he said, his voice a low murmur, kept between the two of them. “I’d forgotten how much.” He lifted his gaze back to hers, his eyes softening as he told her quietly, “I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You can’t predict all the trouble we’ll run into.” Then with her chin lifted, “And I need some autonomy,” she said. “Even if—even if it means stirring up more trouble than I mean to.”

She felt as his hand left her ankle to wrap around her fingers, covering them whole as he gripped them, and so tightly it caught her off guard. “You have all the freedom you want,” Shanks told her, his voice suddenly fierce, and she felt bad then, for making him believe she thought otherwise.

“I know,” Makino said, turning her hand within his to grip his fingers back, her own still so tiny in comparison, but the strength behind it defied it. “And you’re allowed to worry, but I can’t have you taking the blame whenever something happens to me that’s out of your control. I know the risks. I _chose_ this, and you. For better or worse.” She smiled. “And so far, the ‘worse’ parts haven’t been so bad.”

She was glad when his smile widened, knowing already what had prompted it. “Wait— _parts,_ plural? As in more than just this one isolated incident?”

“Hmm, well you still snore like a freight train.”

His laughter was soft, a warmly intimate sound, and his grin wide and adoring where he took her in. And when he looked at her like that, she could almost forget what had happened, and the way it had made her feel, trapped under the damning gaze and the pistol of that marine.

“You know, this was the first time,” Makino said then, keeping her voice down, although it wasn’t hard, with the general volume of the laughter and conversation around them. But she saw how it pulled his eyes to hers, and smiled, although it sat a little awkwardly on her mouth. “That I’ve really felt like a pirate.”

She saw the regret that entered his eyes, but before he could say anything, she stopped him. “I’m glad,” Makino said, tightening her grip on his hand. “Because I think I needed the reminder. I chose this life, but I don’t think I really understood what it meant, to live on this side of the law.”

Shanks was watching her, as though bracing himself for what she was about to say. “And?” he asked.

She smiled. “I am a pirate,” she said, simply.

His smile looked surprised, but the pride in it was felt, and her breath hitched, watching him, finding that quiet wonderment in his eyes that hadn’t changed with their marriage. The one that had stayed the same, ever since he’d first looked at her like that, that sunny day on the floor of her bar, all of her bared beneath him.

And it didn’t matter what she was, barmaid or pirate. When he looked at her like that, she didn’t feel like anything but herself.

Makino thought she might have told him, but found from how his expression softened that he might already know.

She tugged at his hand—cupped her smaller fingers over his, and the metal of his wedding band, before she brought it to her lips, to press a kiss to the centre of his palm.

Shanks' smile crooked, and reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, “My wife,” he said, his voice roughened with equal parts pride and tenderness. “You are that.”

 

—

 

“How long until it’s finished?”

The question was asked stepping into the workshop, where Yasopp had been holed up for the better part of the morning. Shanks didn’t need to ask why, or what had prompted the sudden focus to complete the project he’d been tinkering with for the past few weeks.

“Not long now,” Yasopp said, flicking the magnifying lens up to his brow as he glanced up from his work, and the sword laid out on the worktable before him, amidst charcoal sketches and scattered tools—steel gravers of varying sizes and design, and the book perched at the centre, the cover lit by the burning oil lamp throwing a warm glow over the embellished waves and the sirens dancing in them.

Approaching the table, Shanks smoothed his fingers over the blade, rubbing his thumb along the delicate engravings climbing down from the silver collar. Intricate and time-consuming work, but then he’d entrusted it to the person he knew who wouldn’t do anything less.

Yasopp wiped his hands with the oil-flecked rag hanging at his belt. The sword gleamed in the dim glow, newly polished. Lifting it up, Shanks flipped it smoothly, allowing it to cleave the air, the clean cut yielding a single, perfect note, lingering between the bulkheads of the workshop, a startlingly delicate sound amidst the labouring groans of the ship’s bowels.

“Siren, huh?” Yasopp asked, lifting his eyes from the sword to Shanks, his smile tilting. “You always did have a way with that. Knowing the names of things.”

Shanks only smiled, considering the sword in his hand; the short blade and the sea-glass wrappings around the hilt. A simple design, previously unadorned, but Yasopp had added some flourish to the silver collar—a delicate row of tiny flowers circling it, like lifted from one of her favourite aprons.

Shanks hadn’t asked him to include that, but found his smile widening, considering the little, intimate detail.

“This is incredible work,” he said, flicking his eyes up.

Grinning, “Can’t take all the credit,” Yasopp countered. “It was already a damn fine sword. I’ve just added a personal touch.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ll be honest—I was afraid I’d ruin it when you asked me. But I’m pleased with how it turned out. Nothing ostentatious. Tried to keep it simple, given who it's for. Something she'd like, without being over the top."

He looked at the sword as Shanks turned it over, the lamplight catching in the metal, and Shanks watched as his brows dipped, considering it. “Is it weird that it seems…made for her, somehow?” Yasopp asked. “I can’t explain it. Just seems right, like it would suit her. Which is saying something, because if you'd told me a year ago that I'd see Ma-chan wielding a sword in my lifetime, I would have choked on my drink.”

“No,” Shanks said, with a small smile, remembering the sensation, the day he’d found it in Hamon’s shop. Or the day it had found him, perhaps. “I know what you mean.”

Yasopp smiled as he put the rag down, before adjusting his headband where it had slipped into his brow, pushing his curls out of his face. “I’m guessing you’ll be asking to teach her once it's finished.”

“If she’ll have me,” Shanks said, looking up from where he’d been observing the blade. “Why, did you want to do the honours?”

“No competition here, Boss,” Yasopp laughed. “I did give her some shooting lessons once, if you remember. She’s a steady shot, but a sword might suit her better. She’s little, and quick on her feet. And firearms demand a certain kind of character. Gotta be able to take the shot without worrying if it’s gonna hurt whoever gets the bullet.”

Shanks nodded. He’d wondered how he’d go about this ever since he’d come across the sword in Loguetown. Makino didn’t have the nature of a fighter, didn’t have the disposition to attack with the intent to hurt, let alone take a life, and he didn’t want her to change who she was; not for his sake, or anyone else’s. Barmaid or pirate, that hadn’t changed, but she needed to learn how to protect herself. He’d known that since before they’d left Fuschia. Yesterday’s events had only confirmed that it needed to happen sooner rather than later.

“About time we started taking her haki training seriously, too,” Yasopp said, and Shanks looked up to find he’d crossed his arms over his chest. “She always had a knack for it, but she had an awakening with those marines. Felt it in the way she reacted, after. Senses seemed sharpened, but then that happens with some observation users. Trauma jogs it loose. Then it’s all about honing it.”

“One thing at a time,” Shanks said, although he agreed. And he’d been thinking a lot about that, too. “I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

He didn’t mention that it was a fear he still carried—that she’d one day decide she really wasn’t cut out for a pirate’s life, and that it wasn’t worth it, no matter how much she loved him. He wanted to give her a good life, wanted to keep her happy, and safe, but it wasn’t always up to him. Not on this sea, and certainly not on the one they were headed for.

He hadn’t wanted to rush her. In some ways, he already felt he had, asking her to marry him, but she’d matched him, stride for stride. She hadn’t flinched at the things he’d asked of her, when he’d already asked so much—for her to uproot her quiet life, to leave everything she knew behind and come with him; for her to be a pirate, and his wife, with all the dangers that came with being both. And she was still adjusting, he knew, to life aboard his ship, and to living on the wrong side of the law. He’d suspected already before she’d confirmed it that she hadn’t fully wrapped her head around what the second entailed; what it meant for her to be what she was, and to live the life she’d chosen in order to be with him.

“You’re not regretting it,” Yasopp said. It wasn’t phrased as a question. “Asking her to come with us.”

“No,” Shanks said. “I knew what I was asking of her when I did, but it’s easy to forget sometimes that she’s still new to all of this. I guess this was a much needed wake-up call.”

“Hm,” Yasopp mused. “It’s not been that long since your wedding, and I remember what it was like to be newlywed. No shame in being a little distracted.”

“I can’t afford to be,” Shanks said. “Not with her.”

Yasopp said nothing to that, but then Shanks already knew he understood.

He thought about the fear in her eyes as she’d sat there on the cobblestones, the one he’d felt so sharply from a distance it had been like something had jabbed him between the ribs. And the anger wasn’t surprising, or unwelcome.

He hoped the officer had been hanging there a long time before they got him down.

“I could have been too late,” Shanks said then. He was looking at Siren, and the tender gleam of the metal. He wondered if it would have made a difference, if he’d started training her sooner. If nothing else, she might not have been so _scared._

The guilt still gripped him, remembering the sensation, hard to forget now that it had taken root. She felt more strongly than anyone he’d ever met, which meant it was only too easy to pick up on it, and he hadn’t been prepared for it—for that bright, undiluted terror, and of knowing she was hurt but not how. And the anger was his own now, for allowing her to be put in a position where she had to feel that kind of fear; for letting her go unarmed and unprotected into danger.

Shanks didn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if something happened to her because of his shortsightedness. Not when he’d promised to keep her safe, to love and adore, not just a captain’s fealty, but a husband’s.

“You could have been,” Yasopp agreed. “You can’t guarantee that you’ll always be there to protect her. You shouldn’t have to be.” Then, his mouth quirking. “And I think Makino would take offence to the fact that you should want to be. She’s a self-sufficient little thing, your lady wife. You know she’s learned to hoist the sails by herself? Next you know, she’ll be running the whole ship.”

Shanks felt his grin, quick and delighted, and neither his guilt nor his anger was any match against the fierce swell of pride at the thought, or the implication found in Yasopp's words. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

He placed the sword back on the worktable, taking a moment just to observe it. And he tried to imagine how it would be in those small hands, the dainty fingers that were no strangers to hard work, but that hadn’t been made with this in mind.

But they were also the hands that had learned to haul ship’s rope, and secure the sails; the hands that would climb the rigging, a little more certain with every attempt, and that would brush against his in passing, her fingers tiny where they interlaced with his but stronger than their small shape suggested, and her grip fierce whenever she pulled him down atop her, as though to keep him. He didn’t think there was anything those hands couldn’t do; no burden they couldn’t carry.

“There’ll be greater dangers where we’re going,” Yasopp said, drawing his thoughts back from where they’d wandered, to their warm bunk and Makino’s soft laughter pressed against the sheets. “She’ll be lucky if a sprained ankle is as bad as it gets.” Looking at him, Yasopp’s gaze glanced off his left shoulder, and even if he didn’t mention the amputation, the implication was clear.

Lifting Siren up, Yasopp considered it in the lamplight, his grin flashing, a delight as sharp as the gleaming edge, and the light winking amidst the engravings on the metal as he tipped the sword, testing it, as though he, too, was wondering what it would look like in the right hands, before he flicked his gaze to Shanks.

“So let’s see how she handles them.”

 


End file.
